Reflections in Dirty Water
by jo taylor
Summary: REPOST, with added chapter. Jack is going to hang in the morning, and he spends a long, cold night with his memories.
1. Chapter 1

For those of you who have read this before, we have added a new chapter 10, called Scars g For anyone reading this for the first time, enjoy browsing through Jack's rather colourful past. 

Reflections in Dirty Water 

By Jo Taylor and Avalon

Rated: PG 

Original Date Posted Oct, 2003

Feedback will be welcomed with open arms and copious thanks.

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Summary: When Jack is captured by an old nemesis, who intends to hang him in the morning, he spends a long, cold night in the ship's bilge, with his memories.

Acknowledgements: To dashing Captain Jack Sparrow for providing inspiration.

Disclaimer: Not ours. Don't own 'em. Savvy?

**I. TAKEN PRISONER**

A tattered blanket of cloud looked down on the black ship ploughing its way through the warm Caribbean waters. The majority of the crew were below hatches getting some much-needed rest. Above, only two watchmen and the bosun's mate at the wheel were witness to Jack's roving. He had been prowling the ship for hours now, checking every cabin and storeroom, every rope, every plank, until his crew began to grumble. But this was his ship, and he wanted to see what harm she had taken from Barbossa and his unholy crew. His fingers caressed the wooden rail under his hand, sliding sensuously along the polished surface. Ah, but she was beautiful. The poor old girl had taken a battering from Barbossa, but his crew had worked hard to keep her seaworthy. Below decks, water seeped in slowly despite their running repairs, keeping their progress slow, but Jack wasn't worried - in a day or two they would reach a safe harbour and he could see to her refit. What was a little water on board compared to the troubles his darlin' had seen? Though if things got really tight they could stop off at Shandling Bay and effect sturdier repairs. He didn't like the idea much - the Navy knew all about that shallow inlet, but it was an option - and he was all for keeping his options open.

From the moment he had stepped foot on board the Black Pearl, Jack had been filled with a sense of security long missing. He knew the feeling would be transitory. It wouldn't be long before Norrington came looking for him, but for now he was enjoying the oneness he felt with his surroundings.

He made his way to the poop deck, nodding to Cotton at the wheel, and headed for his favourite spot. Had anyone seen him at that moment they would have wondered at the steady gait, for here, on board his ship, his movements synchronised perfectly with the pitch and yaw under his feet. With a sigh he stretched out, one arm beneath his head. He had spent too many hours cooped up behind bars just lately; he needed the wind on his face and the sense of space all around him. As the moon peeped out from between the clouds Jack found himself holding his breath, waiting for the moonlight to find him. He held up one hand in the sudden pearly glow and sighed in relief. Real flesh and blood cast a shadow across his features. He flexed his fingers, wiggling them in the faint light, a delighted self-satisfied grin on his face.

Pulling his battered hat down over his face, Jack let his senses begin to drift. Under his back the hard wooden planks moved with every swell of the ocean. The familiar slap of the waves against the hull was comforting. It seemed a veritable age since he had slept on the Black Pearl's deck with the tang of salt in every breath he took.

The creak of wood, the snap of canvas as the wind bit into the sails, were all so very familiar…but something didn't feel quite right. Something, and he had no idea what, distant yet increasingly insistent to his senses, disturbed his rest. Slowly Jack pushed himself upright, moving his hat to sit securely on his head. Standing, he made his way forward and let his eyes scan the dim horizon. His ship was running dark. No light shone from any portal. Only the tiny flicker of a half-hidden lamp was to be seen and then only when Cotton needed to check the compass.

"Something ain't right," Jack murmured softly, as though he were speaking his thoughts out loud. "The Pearl, she's talking to me now." Jack trusted his instincts, trusted the ship beneath his feet. He didn't have much faith in anything else, but his gut never lied. "Something's coming."

Cotton gave Jack a strange look, but his captain had already moved to the rail. Jack looked up at the deepening blanket of cloud and sniffed the air. There was a storm gathering - he could feel it in the way the breeze blew against his face and in the building tension in the atmosphere. Though that tension might just as easily be within him. _Something_ was making his spine tingle with anticipation, and not in a good way. Jack searched for another break in the clouds where the moon might peek through and light the vista around him. Moving slowly, he kept his eye on the distant horizon, waiting for the moon to show itself between the clouds. She didn't disappoint. A faint glimmer of white from astern was all he needed - the moon reflected off the white canvas of a ship coming up behind them. Keep calm, he adjured himself. No way it was Norrington on his trail already. He'd seen the capitulation in the man's eyes that would give him a good day, maybe two, head start - or so he hoped.

Each time the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, the following ship seemed to be a little closer. Her lines were familiar - and very unwelcome. Right now Jack would give anything to have Barbossa's crew on board to man the oars and put a bit of speed onto the Pearl's stuttering gait.

He gazed up at his own rigging and cursed the crew for having replaced the black sails. Each time the moon showed her face the sails lit up like a beacon, pinpointing them for all to see. First thing he would do, if he got out of this one, would be to dye those pristine white sails black once more.

His stomach tensed as he thought of the last time he had seen the chasing ship's sails and remembered the promise her captain had made when they had parted.

He lingered for one last gaze, assuring himself he was not mistaken, then flew down the stairs, barrelling through the doors and down to where his crew rested.

"Lively now, boys." Jack's voice clarioned over the assorted snores and grunts. "Up, lads," he exhorted, shaking shoulders, kicking at backsides. "If you value your hides get up in the rigging; all sails now and get the wind full in them. Covenant's right behind us."

Gibbs was staggering to his feet, dragging a hand across his eyes to brush the dregs of sleep from them when Jack's words brought him to a halt.

"You sure, Jack? I thought you put Covenant down five year ago now. He's not been in these waters since before we met."

Jack's apologetic grimace and the eloquent shrug of his shoulders told its own tale. "What can I tell you?"

Gibbs shook his head in exasperation, pushing his way past his captain to rally the crew.

"AnaMaria, get the guns run out, load them with whatever we have…" Her furious gaze brought Jack to a halt.

"Ain't nothing left to put in the cannon, _Captain._ Barbossa left us with nothing; not one cannon ball – almost as if he knew we'd come to this. We're sitting ducks."

Jack couldn't believe it. His ship - unarmed. Covenant would blow them out of the water. Nor would Harry care what happened to the Black Pearl's crew - it was Jack he would be after. The leaden boom of a cannon being fired close by was swiftly followed by the splash of a cannon ball hitting the sea. Jack raced back to his place on deck, noting that Covenant's vessel was closing the gap rapidly. The Pearl was within range of his guns now. Another shot soared towards them and hit water just in front of the Pearl's prow. Harry's gunners wouldn't miss unless instructed to, which gave Jack hope that it wasn't the sinking of Jack's ship Harry wanted, but Jack himself.

"We can't outrun him, Jack!" Gibbs called from the rigging. "We have every sail unfurled. She's taking all the breeze there is and he's still gaining on us."

If it had been just his neck on the line Jack wouldn't have hesitated to trust to his luck, but looking round at his ragtag crew, good people the lot of them, he couldn't ask them to fight this battle. If he gave himself up, Covenant might be more likely to be lenient with the others. Jack had nothing left to fight with, no harbour close enough to run to, no weapons save his quick wits - and they wouldn't stop the cannon being aimed at his ship right now.

Setting his hat more firmly on his head, he shouted up to his first mate. "Put up a white flag, Gibbs, and get you and the others below."

"What are you doing lad? Covenant'll string you up for sure."

Jack's grin had lost some of its insouciance. "He can try, mate. Others have before him and here I am!" He stared over at the ship, now coming alongside his own, her gun ports open and aimed at the Black Pearl's already battered sides. Would Harry sink the Pearl? He might, and there was nothing Jack could do to stop him. Jack's dark eyes lit with apprehension as he realised that Gibbs and the crew had ignored his orders and were standing just behind him – waiting.

Jack's eye caught the new name emblazoned on the sloop's hull – Revenge - and wondered just how the hell he was going to get out of this.

Jack had been the first to cross to the Revenge, his crew tagging along reluctantly. They all stood in a ragged group outside the open door to the main cabin. Around him ranged some familiar faces. He tried an ingratiating smile, only to be met with stony looks and less than encouraging grins. From within, Jack could see the Revenge's captain sitting in solitary splendour upon a gilt chair. He tried another smile. It had no effect.

Covenant eyed Jack and his crew with a baleful eye. With a wave of his good hand he dismissed the handful of crew that had been aboard the Black Pearl.

Gibbs voice called back to him as his crew were escorted, none too gently, to where a plank still linked the two ships. "I'm sorry, Jack!"

Jack took a moment to lock his gaze with the old man's. He nodded his head once in understanding then returned his attention to Harry who was watching him with an anticipatory look in his eye that Jack _really_ didn't like.

"Shall I sink her for you Jack? Add a few more holes to that battered hull? No – I think it's more fitting that she sails away from you under a new captain – again. One who'll take better care of her?"

For once Jack could find no words, his throat constricting uncomfortably and once again he had the depressing knowledge that his ship would shortly be sailing away without him.

"Cast them off, lads." Covenant's voice was filled with a bitter satisfaction. "Take a good look, Jack Sparrow, for that's the last time you'll ever see your darling Black Pearl."

Jack watched the black hulk edging away from him, ignoring Harry's words. His ship would survive - he knew that with a certainty. She'd been through all kinds of hell, literally, and come out the other side. So maybe this wasn't his time to be her captain - but one day…

"Bring him in here!"

Ungentle hands grabbed his arms, dragging him into the main cabin until he stood in front of the Revenge's captain.

Covenant's voice dropped into the silence that had settled in the room. "It's been a while, Sparrow. You're looking well."

Jack couldn't say the same for Captain Covenant. The burn-scarred face with one good eye watched him with a coldness that could freeze the salt water under the hull. The man's left hand was clawed where burned skin had not healed properly, and when he rose to pace around his prisoner, his right leg dragged significantly, even with the use of a silver-handled cane.

Jack grimaced at the sight, and understood why Covenant had renamed his ship. There was no way he would let Jack go… given that Jack was the one who had brought him to this.

"I'll give you till dawn, Sparrow. I've had five long years to anticipate this moment - I'll give you till the sun comes up. Then I'm going to string you up to my yardarm and watch you dance."

Even when he had been standing on the hangman's dais, listening to his crimes being read out, Jack had not been this aware of his mortality. Something always came along to give him an edge, a way out. He didn't want to resign himself to a quick drop for Harry's amusement, but he was damned if he could see a way out. He chanced a look at the weather-beaten faces surrounding him, some familiar some not, but could see no glimmer of sympathy in any of them. Turning back to his captor he tried in his best wheedling voice. "Now, Harry, you don't really want to do that! Can't we come to an accord? There must be something I can offer you that's worth my life? Treasure perhaps? I know just the place…"

Harry took a step forward, his cane tapping hard on the wooden floor. "The only thing I want from you Jack is a fair jig in the morning breeze."

Suddenly Covenant took a shaky step forward, his cane lashing out to catch Jack a telling blow to the side of his head. Lights flickered in front of Jack's eyes as he reeled backwards. Behind him, someone aimed a savage kick at his legs, sending him tumbling to the floor, then something hard cracked into Jack's ribs, whooshing the air from his lungs. For a moment he lost consciousness, blackness taking him hostage.

As his mind began to work once more, Jack was aware of hands under his shoulders and his feet dragging on the rough planks. A creaking from ahead indicated a door being opened. Jack opened his eyes warily and dropped his gaze. Below him gaped an open trap door, through which Jack could make out the faint sound of water sloshing against the hull.

"Enjoy your stay, C_aptain Sparrow,"_ a coarse voice chortled from above him, then the hands let him go and he tumbled into the bilge with a splash.


	2. Chapter two

**II. HARRY COVENANT**

No iron bars for Captain Jack Sparrow this time; this was no Navy vessel. Harry had tossed him into the deepest part of the Revenge to contemplate his fate. Well, it had been an interesting life, though it seemed it was going to be far shorter than he'd hoped.

Wringing the water from his clothes, Jack stood and tried to assess his situation. Not good, he decided. Beside him he could feel the rough wood of the ladder leading up to the opening. Climbing the ladder he felt around in the darkness - surely there would be a lamp near to the hatch. Questing fingers met cool metal and after searching through his pockets he found his flints. It took a few tries but soon Jack had the wick alight, sending a welcoming glow around his surroundings. He tried a tentative push on the hatch, then a harder one, battering time and again at the solid barrier – it didn't budge.

His actions had stirred up the other residents of the hold though. A scrabbling noise from behind the crates assured him he was not alone. He flinched – he had never liked rats. Nasty vermin-ridden creatures.

Jack made his way back down the ladder, and paused, contemplating the bilge water lapping at his boots.

He couldn't see himself talking his way out of this predicament. He and Harry went back too far. Too much anger and hate lay between them. With his ribs protesting mightily when he took too deep a breath, he settled himself down to a long wait, trimming the wick to make the oil last a little longer. He made himself comfortable on a packing case so that at least his feet would be out of the water, even if his body was uncomfortably clammy from his earlier dunking.

Silence settled in the hold and Jack closed his eyes, letting his head settle back against the hull, but the pounding in his skull made sleep impossible.

Something was scrabbling close to him. He could almost hear it breathe. Slowly he opened his eyes and found himself face to face with the biggest rat he'd ever seen. The two eyed one another for a moment before Jack bolted away from the sharp teeth. "Bloody hell!" he yelped staggering back into the watery waste. Gibbs had never let his ship get infested like this. And that thought brought him back to the Black Pearl.

Gibbs would take care of the Pearl. See her brought back to her former glory. Good man, Gibbs, though he had been a sad case when Jack had first met him. Well maybe that was not _quite_ the truth. Drunk more often than not, the man may have been, but he'd certainly done well by Jack.

When Gibbs had found Jack washed up on the beach like a piece of driftwood, the man had taken him in even though it must have been obvious he wasn't your average shipwreck survivor. Even now, Jack wasn't sure just how long he'd been adrift on that battered piece of wood. For once his luck had held, and he'd managed not to fall off the side. The sun had beaten him into submission though; his body had screamed for water long before he had passed out. As near-death experiences went, it wasn't one Jack wanted to go through ever again. He'd rather be standing on the hangman's platform for a quick drop and a sudden stop.

The severe dehydration had wreaked havoc with Jack's system and he had struggled for a long while to get his speech back. He had rambled a lot, or so Gibbs had told him, and Jack had been afraid that in his delirium he'd said more than was wise. But Gibbs had become a friend in that time. Jack didn't blame him for taking his chances now; it was no more than he himself would have done.

Harry Covenant. Jack's thoughts drifted back to that fateful night. It was rare for Jack to lose his temper, his skewed outlook on life holding his darker emotions pretty much in check. But that night Harry had been spoiling for a fight, both of them drunk as could be on the poor quality rum Covenant insisted on keeping on board his ship. It had started out as a celebration after Harry's Fearless and Jack's Victory had cornered the Spanish plate ship between them, bringing down her sails and crippling the larger vessel. The cannon had hit her low on the hull and she was taking on water at a steady rate. The pirates wouldn't have long to salvage their booty.

The two captains had boarded her, checking for themselves the prize they had won. That was when the trouble had started.

"Ah, now this is a pretty boat," Jack murmured, feeling the Spanish ship dance under his feet. She reminded him of the Pearl in her clean lines and elegant proportions. He watched the two crews make light work of the feeble resistance the Spaniards were putting up. The surviving men had been herded together on the deck, waiting for their fate to be decided.

Harry was all for dispatching the Spanish crew there and then, but Jack had wanted to set them adrift in the long boats. He had never held with the senseless taking of life - he'd seen too much of it for it to have any appeal. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he had no liking for bloodshed. Not that that would stop him slitting a throat or putting a bullet through someone should the need occur. He'd do whatever it took to survive.

"Let 'em go, Harry. Set them adrift and let them take their chances. No sense in wasting good shot on a bunch of Spaniards."

"Don't need no shot, good steel will do just as well!" Harry took a swig from the hip flask that accompanied him everywhere.

To Jack, it seemed that his counterpart now spent most of his time bordering on a drunken stupor. Jack could carry his drink well enough but how Harry stayed upright on occasion fascinated him. It was an allowance he made the older man when he would start with his slurs and accusations. It had been chance that had led him to this day and the booty now waiting to be divided. Tortuga, that most welcoming of harbours, had been Jack's last port of call and it had been there that he'd heard of Covenant's quest. Covenant had heard of a shipment of Spanish gold and needed help taking the prize. But everyone in Tortuga knew Harry, knew his reputation for the booze, and no one had believed him – save Jack. For the sake of trying to reclaim the Pearl, Jack was willing to take a gamble on the older man. The Victory was a sad ship, but seaworthy, and the crew were willing enough with such a big prize in the offing. And so they had struck an accord, shaking hands on the deal and raising a glass or three to a happy result.

This haul would be enough for Jack to finally hire the men he wanted then take the Victory out to search for the Black Pearl. He cast a covert glance at the motley assembly that currently comprised his crew, thinking glumly that he wouldn't trust any one of them to watch his back. No, he wouldn't be sad to see the end of this marriage of convenience with Harry…or the backs of the men that followed him.

Harry must have seen the reminiscent look on Jack's face for he immediately launched into him once again.

"Pretty boat!" he started, going back to Jack's initial thoughts on boarding. Jack hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud. "Remind you of that scow of a ship you let Barbossa take from you, does it?"

"The Black Pearl is the fastest ship in these waters, Harry. And you know it. If it'd been the Pearl under my feet when we first met things would be different right now." 'Oh yes,' Jack thought, 'there would have been no need to join with a drunken sot such as you. I would be free to roam the sea, Captain of my own ship, master of my fate. And maybe I could have taken this prize for my own - no sharing with a poor excuse for a pirate such as Harry Covenant!

Jack felt his temper begin to rise and stamped on it hard. There was no profit in angering the man, what with no one to watch his back should things go amiss. "Let's not argue, Harry, there's more important things to discuss." He pointed to where box upon box of gold were being brought up on deck and opened. Everyone turned fascinated greed-filled eyes to the glistening mass.

Jack's wishes won out. The Spaniards were set adrift - and from that moment on, Harry had been pinching and poking with his words. The fact that Jack took no notice only seemed to add fuel to the fire of his anger.

From the deck of the Fearless, Jack watched the Spanish ship go down and found himself a little sad. If it had been seaworthy he would have taken her as his part of the prize and left the Victory behind. The Spaniard had felt comfortable under his feet. Ah well, he was not one for regrets.

Later that day, the two captains sat in the main cabin of Harry's ship, sharing a meal and a good deal of liquor. Each had discarded their jackets and put up their weapons - this was a celebration between two comrades. Jack had no thought above getting as drunk as possible for the first time in days then taking his share of the prize and sailing the Victory back to Tortuga to provision and take on a new crew.

"You're a soft bugger, Jack Sparrow!" Harry had started, tossing down another glass full of rum. "Call yourself a pirate - you've less bottle than the ship's cat!"

Jack had raised his scarred brow and took another swig of his own drink before replying. "Get the job done though, mate. No point wasting good bullets and powder when I don't have to. And then there's all that swabbing to get the blood out of the decks. Never was one for housekeeping."

"Ah, you never was a one to get your hands dirty. Too busy putting beads in your hair and paint on your face!"

Harry's snort of derision hit home. Without volition Jack's fingers came up to touch the latest set of beads he had plaited into his hair. It was an affectation he enjoyed. It set him apart from the other poorly dressed and less groomed pirates. So what if he wanted to be a little different? It got him noticed; it got his name known. A man needed a trademark didn't he? Besides, if Ed Teach could get away with putting ribbons in his beard, Jack Sparrow could damn well put beads in his hair. He'd seen the notorious pirate once when he was younger - the man had scared the daylights out of him, ribbons and all.

Harry leaned forward and tapped the hilt of Jack's sword where it lay discarded on the table between them.

"You ever spit someone with this little trinket of yours? I's seen you flourish it around like a court dandy, but I's yet to see you draw blood."

Jack's brows plunged together. "What's your problem, Harry?"

"You," came the bald reply. "I think I'm going to retire you 'Captain Sparrow'. I want someone with more balls than you fighting at my side. If I hadn't heard to the contrary, I'd say you were a damn eunuch. Though could be I've heard wrong, eh Jack?"

Harry took another swig, Jack matching him tot for tot.

Narrowing his eyes, Jack watched Harry swig another mouthful of rum, spilling half of it down his chest. "If we're going to talk affectations…" Jack began irritably, eyeing Harry's gaudy, rum-soaked waistcoat with disfavour – he didn't get to finish the sentence, Harry riding roughshod over his words.

"Damn lily-livered, that's you _Captain Sparrow._ Barbossa had the right of it when he tossed you off the Black Pearl. Never was good enough for that ship. Never thought you was much of a pirate either." He snorted and gulped down another tot of rum. "You, Captain of the Black Pearl!" And Covenant suddenly burst out into raucous laughter.

It was one comment too far. All day Harry had been digging at him, pushing him to his limits. Jack's self-control was over. The slow burn that had been quietly gathering momentum in Jack's gut was about to explode. The overwhelming anger took him by surprise, leaving him shaking – and then he acted on it, ignoring his usual maxim of waiting for the opportune moment. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled it swiftly from the scabbard. "You want me to spit you, Harry, then let's take this on deck." Jack slapped his hat onto his head then buckled the scabbard to his hips.

Slamming his pistol under his belt he stomped up the stairs to the main deck. He half expected Harry to fall down the moment he tried to get to his feet, but Covenant surprised him once again by staggering after him, buckling his own sword around his slightly portly frame.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon, the two pirate crews dividing up the booty. Both sets of crews were crowded onto the Fearless' main deck as the prize was being shared out. Just two men stood watch back on the Victory. Jack saw the anticipation on every face as the two captains made their way to the poop deck, scattering crewmen as they went and a murmur went through the crowd. Lanterns had been lit against the gathering gloom and their crimson glow added to the angry red spots of colour on Harry's cheeks. It seemed the pirates were in for a little entertainment to seal a gloriously profitable day.

Jack had learned to fight the hard way through the years – for his survival. And he was good, but then so was Harry. And at the moment Harry's capacity for drink seemed to be negating Jack's youth. Back and forth the two men sliced and parried, lunged and slashed. Too evenly matched, Jack had thought, the rum slowing his reaction times to a dangerous level. But Harry was in a worse way, eyes fading in and out of focus as Jack's sword weaved in front of him.

Time to take the advantage, Jack had thought, his wits finally coming in to play. Harry had his back to the steps now, only a pace away from falling to the main deck, where the pirate crews watched in fascination. Each crew egged on their captain, though it was doubtful they really cared who won.

Jack lunged forward, the point of his blade slithering up Harry's until it hit the man high in the shoulder. Both men were moving too fast to avoid the fall to the deck below and Jack landed heavily on top of his adversary. He had heard the crunch of breaking bones, but it was the shout of 'fire' that moved him to his feet. In their fall a lamp had been knocked free from its place, spilling burning oil onto the deck where it flowed straight for the downed man. Crewmen ran for buckets to douse the fire but none were in time to stop the conflagration that seemed to consume Covenant. Jack dragged himself upright, shaking his head trying to clear his vision. Had he hit something on the way down or was it just the rum finally taking hold? Whatever it was it was bloody poor timing. He turned around, looking for another bucket to help put out the fire. Harry's cries ripped right into his pounding head - but Jack found himself being pushed and shoved from all sides by the men who had already taken action.

Water was quickly thrown over the burning captain and across the trail of fire that was running wildly across the deck. The deck was tinder dry and ripe for burning, and Harry kept on screaming. Mixed in with his cries Jack heard Harry exhort his men to rip Jack apart and to bring him his entrails. Jack backed away from the scene, looking for a way out. It was his fault, his actions that had sent fire searing across the Fearless' deck. At any moment someone other than Harry was going to figure that out and want reparation.

Jack's eyes flew to his own little ship. The Victory had drifted a distance away, but he was a good swimmer. The fire had been doused, Harry no longer screamed – it was time to make a graceful exit.

The bosun had helped Harry to his feet. The man's leg appeared to be broken and his arm hung uselessly at his side. Whatever Jack had hit with that last thrust had obviously caused more damage than he had supposed.

From the frantic rush to douse the fire, both crews suddenly turned on Jack. Emotions were running way too high and Jack had let his options dwindle to zero. His own crew had no loyalty to him; they'd sailed with the Victory strictly for the booty promised and Jack knew he was on his own. In seconds he was buried under a pile of men, feet and fists pounding into him. Jack's only good fortune was that there were so many of them that they got in each other's way. Slowly, he dragged himself out from under the pack, inching his way toward the rail. By now the fight had become a melee, pirate pounding on pirate in gleeful abandon.

Pain lanced through Jack as he dragged himself up to clutch the rail. He'd apparently taken a knife in the side at some point.

He poised on the rail taking one last look back at where Harry stood, leaning against the bosun. Covenant's eyes were fixed on him – Harry's face red and blistered, his clothes in tatters. Jack read the deadly message in the burning eyes, confirmed by the mouthed promise – 'I'll see you dead, Jack Sparrow'.

Jack stilled. He had always held Covenant in contempt but there was something in the man's eyes that promised a terrible vengeance should they ever meet again. For a moment Jack wished that he _had_ run the man through in a clean hit, for he had the strangest premonition that should they ever meet again, the gods might not be so kind to him.

No. Shock and loss of blood were taking their toll on Jack's damaged body. That was all it was, this sudden chill that almost took his breath away. With a shudder, Jack dragged his gaze away and threw himself over the side, away from his enemy, clutching madly at his battered hat.

Jack tried to swim to the Victory…only to hear the sound of a cannon being fired over his head - and the Victory exploded right in front of him, a lucky hit to the gunpowder stored below decks, most like. It seemed Harry was determined that Jack would not reach safety, even if it meant killing the poor sods who had been left on board.

Jack's survival was more by luck than design. He took a lungful of air and let himself drop below the surface, ignoring the pain in his side as the Victory spread herself across the ocean. Finally coming up for air, he managed to cling to a piece of the wreckage, hiding beneath it time and again as the Fearless manoeuvred through the flotsam – Harry checking for his corpse, or so he supposed. It was full night when the Fearless finally sailed away, and Jack hauled himself up onto the largest piece of wood he could find before letting the darkness take him.

When he found Jack, Gibbs had asked how he'd come by his injuries, what had happened. "You should see the other guy, mate," Jack had replied hoarsely, before passing out again.


	3. Chapter 3

III. THE MUTINY 

That was two ships now that Harry Covenant had cost him – the Victory and the Black Pearl. As Jack made his way around the bilge, looking futilely for loose planks, or something he might use as a weapon, an uncharacteristic rage began to build inside him. He didn't hate many people. He could count their number on one hand, with fingers to spare. But right now, knowing how unlikely it was that he'd ever see the Black Pearl again – or anything else for that matter, come the dawn – well, Jack hated Covenant… with a passion.

Finally, after he had tripped over a hidden timber and crashed to his knees in the filthy bilge water for the third time, Jack gave up and went back to his perch on the crate. Once there he settled back down to staring bleakly at the shadows before him.

The Pearl. Why did he keep losing her? Were the fates having a go at him? If so, he wished they'd bleeding well leave him alone. Still, at least this time she was in good hands.

Unlike that night ten years ago…

It was the sound of the cannonball rolling across the deck that awoke Jack. It was the one sound every seaman knew, and every Captain feared – the signal for mutiny.

Or maybe someone had just dropped a cannon ball.

Nevertheless, Jack was on his feet, pulling on his breeches and shirt with one hand and reaching for his weapons with the other, before he was fully awake. He didn't bother with his boots. Instead, he buckled on his sword belt, fingers checking automatically that the compass was safely attached. Then, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, with shirt unbuttoned and still barefooted, he flung open the door of his cabin and raced up toward the deck, where the shouts and the clash of cutlasses could be heard.

Well, nobody had dropped a cannonball, that was certain. It took only a moment for Jack's eyes to adjust to the moonlight. When they did, he almost wished they hadn't. It looked like a full-fledged war had broken out. Pirates were fighting pirates, some already dead or dying, their blood staining the Pearl's decks. The fighting seemed to cover the entire length of the ship.

'Wait', something inside told him, quelling his urgent need to get out there _now_ and save his ship. Wait, until he knew who was fighting for him - and who was _against_. While it was clear that this _was_ a mutiny, it was equally clear that the crew was not united. At least not entirely. Here and there were small pockets of resistance. Rapidly Jack began to sort out the men into two groups. For him – and against. There, near the mizzenmast were O'Dell and Ferrault, fighting Pintel and Koehler, the newcomers. His eyes went further afield, until he spotted Bootstrap, being backed into a corner near the fo'c'sle by…

Barbossa. In that instant, everything came together. The surviving crew of the Bloody Cutlass, including Bootstrap, were still loyal to Jack. But the new crew – _the one gathered on Tortuga, and led by Barbossa_ – they were the mutineers. Fury, mixed with a healthy dose of self-loathing, surged through Jack, even as he flung himself into the fray. How could he have been so stupid? Bootstrap had warned him about Barbossa, had told Jack not to take the pirate on, but Jack hadn't listened. They had been through a lot together on the Bloody Cutlass, before Barbossa had left to make his own way, Jack had argued. They were friends.

"He's ambitious," Bootstrap had replied, staring broodingly at Barbossa from across the crowded tavern. "And…he's changed, since the Cutlass. Something happened to him out there. Mark my works, Jack my lad, he's not the same man we knew. Don't trust him."

Jack had simply laughed and tossed back another tankard of ale, despite the frisson of unease that had shot through him. "Me, I don't trust anyone, mate." Nevertheless, when Barbossa had appeared on the dock with the rest of the men to sign the articles before sailing, Jack had agreed to take him on. For old times' sake.

Well, old times' sake was going to get him killed. He should have trusted Bootstrap's instincts, should have trusted his own. He would next time.

If there were a next time.

'Stupid,' Jack snarled to himself as his sword met that of a new crewman whose name he didn't know. 'Brainless, bloody Sparrow. You're going to lose your ship because you trusted your _friend_.'

Even as he fought, Jack's mind continued to race, weighing the odds and looking desperately for some way out of this. The crew from the Cutlass – _his_ crew – were outnumbered by at least four to one. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ferrault go down, his throat cut by Pintel. O'Dell fell next. The odds were worsening all the time. He _was_ going to lose his ship, and probably his life. Barbossa's men were too well-prepared, too damned _many_. Unless some sort of a miracle came along…and Jack had stopped believing in miracles long ago.

If he could just get to Barbossa, maybe he could turn the tide... But there was no way he could reach the man, short of flying. Too many stood between him and Barbossa. Jack skirted a fallen sailor, aimed his pistol at one mutineer and fired, then flipped it over and clubbed another over the head, even as he risked a quick glance upwards. Maybe the rigging? He could swing across the ship and…

A cutlass tip caught him across the chest, not deep enough to cause lasting damage, but enough to leave a long bloody furrow in the skin. Jack turned his attention back to his assailant, his anger giving him both speed and strength. He shoved his blade into the man's stomach then stepped back and wrenched it free, spinning around to meet yet another attack from behind. As he did, he caught a quick glimpse of Barbossa, barely visible in the darkness, further off now, swept away by the tide of battle. Damn. Even if Jack could make it to the rigging now without being shot, he would never reach Barbossa in time. Around him, his men continued to fall as they fought to the death…for him.

For a single moment, Jack considered doing the same thing. Fighting to the death. After all, giving up the Pearl would be worse than dying, he knew in a brief, cold moment. Just the thought of losing the ship he had so recently won, and the freedom she represented - no, dying would be better.

But there was his crew to think about. They were good men, and true. And the longer he delayed, the more of his people died. Maybe he could still salvage this, still find a way out. As long as he was alive there was always a chance. Right? 'I _will_ get you back,' Jack promised his ship silently, 'even if it takes me the rest of my life.' And then he stepped back and shouted, loud enough to be heard over the melee:

"Parley!"

Jack was disarmed quickly then dragged before Barbossa as those loyal to him dropped their swords, clattering to the deck in the moonlight. There were only a few of them left, Jack noted. 'We never had a chance,' he thought bitterly. Anger rose again within him but he fought it back down. If he were to save his men – and himself – he would need all his wits about him. Not that it would be easy with Barbossa standing there with a smile on his face that Jack ached to remove. Permanently. Nevertheless, Jack swallowed once then managed to say, calmly enough:

"Good plan, mate."

Barbossa's grin widened. "You like it?"

"Not quite the word I'd use."

"No, I s'ppose not. Still, can't argue with success, can you?"

Jack's fists clenched. "You planned this from the beginning?"

Barbossa nodded. "Ever since you sailed into Tortuga, lad. Not that it wasn't a clever manoeuvre you pulled, wresting this ship from the Navy, I'll give you that. But we both know who should be Captain here."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Aye, we do."

Barbossa laughed and clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder. "We're both pirates, Jack. I'm just following the code. It's nothing personal."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You won't have the chance." Barbossa turned to the mutineers, raising his voice so they could all hear him clearly. "_Captain_ Sparrow has proved himself no sort of Captain, men. He released all those fine officers of the British Navy so they can hunt us down at their leisure. He's brought us no gold, and he's leading us on a fool's errand. What shall we do with him? What say you?"

There were assorted shouts of: "Kill him! Cut 'is throat. Keel-haul the bastard!"

Jack cleared his throat and Barbossa looked back at him. "There's still the matter of parley," Jack said, politely enough

Barbossa laughed, his teeth glinting gold and silver in the moonlight. "True enough. All right then, Jack. What is it you want?"

Jack hesitated. Barbossa was as slippery as he was treacherous. He had only one shot at this. If he didn't phrase it exactly right…

"The men who fought for me are not to be punished. They get the chance to join your crew on an equal footing, same as anyone else. If they choose not, you let them off – unharmed, mind you – at the first friendly port you reach. Savvy?" The words tasted like ash in his mouth. _Your crew. _And by implication, _your ship_. May Barbossa and his black soul rot in hell for all eternity. With an effort, Jack managed to keep what he was feeling from his face, maintaining his mask of casual collectedness.

Barbossa nodded slowly. "Fair enough. And what of you?"

Jack paused again…but this time on purpose. This next bit was going to be difficult. Barbossa was a contrary soul, but a clever one. If he realised Jack was manipulating him…

"Well, you could always drop off me at the nearest port," Jack suggested.

"Aye. Or I could always stick me sword in you. Of the two…"

"Or how about the next island then?" Jack replied hurriedly, allowing just a tinge of fear to colour his voice, hoping that his face wasn't giving too much away. If he had read his charts right last night, and if the rumours he had heard in Tortuga about rum-runners were true, then there was still a chance. Not much of one, it was true, but it was all he had. He no longer had any illusions about what Barbossa was capable of, and Jack certainly didn't fancy a long, slow dip under the keel of the Black Pearl, especially after what he had just gone through to steal her. 'Come on, you bastard,' he thought silently. 'Take the bait.'

The mutineer rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "I was really looking forward to killing you, Jack. Still, the idea does have merit. You watching me sail away with the Black Pearl, followed by a long, slow death…I like it. I like it a lot."

"Do we have an accord?" Jack asked hopefully.

"Aye. That we do." Barbossa turned to his men. "You heard the man. Anyone who wants to join us is free to do so. Koehler – get Mr Sparrow a pistol. Single shot only."

"And my hat."

Barbossa rolled his eyes. "And his hat."

It was all done surprisingly quickly. The men who had fought for Jack, had eyed each other briefly, then shrugged and threw their lot in with Barbossa. Bootstrap was the only one who had hesitated, his eyes meeting those of his old friend, but a quick shake of Jack's head had convinced him to follow the others. Jack didn't hold it against him. There was nothing Bootstrap could do, nothing any of them could do but make the best of a bad situation.

The island itself lay less than a quarter-hour ahead of them. Jack had watched glumly, his hands tied before him, as the mutineers, now joined by their former enemies, struck the sails, and the Black Pearl came about, her sails glimmering faintly in the starlight. Then, at sword-point, Jack was forced onto a plank. He eyed the waves beneath him unhappily, then looked back at Barbossa.

"Don't suppose I can have my boots back?" His bare feet were getting cold.

"Sorry, lad. That wasn't part of the agreement."

"Didn't think so." For a moment Jack just stood there, feeling the Pearl's movements beneath him, listening to the creak of her hull, and a feeling of absolute desolation swept over him. But Barbossa was watching, and he wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing how much this hurt. Besides, he _would_ get her back someday. He had a promise to keep, after all.

"Where will you go now?" Jack asked conversationally, as if he weren't standing on the end of a plank and about to lose everything that mattered to him.

Barbossa smiled. "Where else? Isla de Muerta. My thanks for the bearings, by the way. We couldn't have found it without you."

It was only the practice of long years that kept Jack from touching the compass, still hanging at his belt. That was one mistake Barbossa had made, letting him keep it. Marooning Jack on _this _island was another. There would be others. And someday…

His musings were interrupted by a splash. Jack looked down to see a pistol sinking beneath the waves.

"Goodbye, Jack," Barbossa said, raising his hat with a flourish. Jack didn't hear him – he was already diving headfirst off the plank and into the ocean.

By the time Jack had retrieved the pistol and fought his way back up to the surface, the Black Pearl was already several dozen yards away, and gathering speed with every moment. For what seemed like forever, Jack bobbed there in the ocean, treading water and watching the Pearl's stern as she sailed away, cutting through the dark waves like a dagger. And then, when he couldn't see even her lanterns any longer, Jack turned and began to swim to shore, with aching arms and heavier heart.

Jack shifted, trying to find a position that wasn't quite as soggy and uncomfortable. He had even considered manning the bilge pumps for a while, just to try to dry things out a bit, but had decided against it. Let the leaky scow sink and take her captain with her. It would serve them both right. Of course, if the ship sank, he'd be the first to drown, locked in as he was - but it was still a nice thought. Almost as nice as what he would do to Harry Covenant if he ever got out of here.

That was twice now. Twice he had given up the Black Pearl in order to save his crew. Once, when Barbossa had stolen the ship ten years ago, and now. For a moment he didn't know who he hated more – Barbossa or Covenant.

Upon reflection, it was Covenant. Barbossa was dead after all, and hopefully rotting in some lower level of hell. Harry Covenant was very much alive and planning…

Well. Best not to think about what he was planning. Pleasant thoughts. That's the ticket. Pleasant thoughts - like escaping and roasting Covenant's heart over a slow fire.


	4. Chapter 4

IV. BRISTOL 

The pleasant thoughts weren't working. Jack was cold, wet, and more than a little unhappy. With a sigh, he leaned back and glowered at his surroundings. For a man who had vowed the day he left Bristol to never be a prisoner again, he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time chained up, tied down, or knocked out. Sometimes all three at once.

Bristol. Jack's lips twisted. Now that was a place he hadn't thought of in…a long time. A very long time. Dear old dreary Bristol. Too damned wet to be hell on Earth, but the next best thing. Actually, his present soggy situation reminded him more than a little of that benighted city. Jack's eyes drifted shut, blotting out his prison and the water around him…but the memories refused to fade.

Bristol…

It was one of those rare cloudless summer days, when the sun shone gloriously over Bristol and the river Avon. Everything looked fresh and new; the birds singing ecstatically. The moored ships swayed gently, their sails neatly furled and the water beneath them so vivid a blue as to be blinding, while overhead, seagulls soared and banked in the summer sky. The sounds of the docks carried on the air – men shouting to each other as they loaded their ships, the creak of windlasses, and the song of the breeze through the riggings…and most of all, the waves lapping at the hulls. It was a siren song, and it called to Jack, carrying with it a promise for the future. His future.

His hand moved unconsciously to the pocket that held the letter he had received that day and sorrow lanced through him yet again, followed by disbelief. His mother was dead. He had read the letter more than a dozen times, but somehow it didn't seem quite real. Not yet.

At least it had been quick. She hadn't suffered, according to the letter from the parish priest. Her heart had simply stopped. There was no reason for it, and nothing Jack could have done to save her, even if he had been there. She hadn't even been exerting herself – merely walking home from the market, her basket no heavier than usual. One moment alive, the next…

He had loved her. Beside his uncle and two younger cousins, his mother was all the family he had left in the world. And now she was gone. It hurt. Quite a lot actually, when he allowed himself to think about it. And yet…

And yet it also meant that he was free. Free from the promise he had made all those years ago, free to make his own decisions and lead his own life now. A sense of relief shivered within him, followed by guilt. His mother was dead. He shouldn't be feeling like this. And yet…

'Don't think about it,' Jack told himself firmly. No, he had other worries just now – namely, how to evade the pursuit that would surely be coming after him. He would have been missed by now, Jack knew – the remnants of his hasty packing in his room a clear sign as to his intent.

He had promised his mother he would stay in Bristol, that black day, five years ago. He had promised her he would obey his uncle, Edward Nelson, and he had promised to lead a respectable life. And for five years, he had tried. But now the reason for his promise was gone, and Jack was free. At least, he would be if he could avoid capture long enough to make sail. Uncle Edward might not care that much for him personally, but he too had made a promise to Jack's mother…and stubbornness was a trait that seemed to run in abundance on _both_ sides of Jack's family.

Jack paused and leaned one hip against a nearby barrel, despite the sense of urgency that was gnawing at him, and ran a practiced eye over the ships spread out before him. He might not be a sailor – 'yet', a voice within him supplied – but he hadn't spent his every free moment here, watching the ships and talking to the men who sailed them, for nothing. Over the past few years, when he hadn't been learning the fine art of cartography, he had been learning the art of the sea. Now he could identify every ship before him with just a glance. Here was a Barque, fore and aft rigged on the mizzenmast. Just beyond it, a Brigantine, followed by another Barque, a Schooner, and a Brig. One part of Jack's mind automatically began to list the Brig's sails – inner jib, outer jib, flying jib, foresail, fore topsail, and so on. It was a soothing litany, one that focused his thoughts and calmed his nerves.

He was really going to do this. He was going to climb on board one of these ships and sail away – from Bristol, from England, and from the life he hated. Jack eased his satchel from his shoulder for a moment then paused, the black stains on his fingertips catching his gaze. Ink. The mark of a cartographer - literally. It would be a long time before the stains would wear off, he knew. It was almost like being branded. Branded a cartographer's apprentice, and, in these past few months, a cartographer itself. It felt like a sentence of death.

Jack didn't blame his mother. She had done the best for him that she could, after that awful night when the excise men had come. No, he didn't blame her for sending him away. She had just lost her husband. To lose her only son as well would have been devastating. He understood that, though it hadn't made his life in Bristol any easier to stomach. He had loved Cornwall, had loved its endless coastlines and the song of the sea. But this? A cartographer's apprentice? Jack's stained fingers clenched. He knew why she had done it – out of a desperate desire to give her son a future. Security. Respectability. Jack snorted inwardly. Well, that part certainly hadn't worked. There was too much of his father in him. At least, that's what his uncle was always saying. Still, he gave his mother points for trying.

Another pang shot through him. God, he was going to miss her. Even if she had sent him to her brother, who had in turn sentenced him to sit in a dry and dusty office with a doddery old man, drawing the world instead of going out and seeing it, he was still going to miss her. Life for Jack seemed to consist of one loss after another –his father, his home, and finally his freedom itself. And now his mother. Jack's gaze narrowed. Well, he had lost quite enough, thank you very much. It was high time he started taking something back. Starting with his liberty. His uncle might still want him to be a cartographer for his mother's sake, but that was never going to happen. With a swift, economic movement Jack stood and shouldered his pack.

Jack ruled out the first few ships he came across. The Barque was too tattered and grimy, the Brigantine too clean. The crew of the second Barque looked a bit _too_ dangerous – not that Jack had many qualms in that direction, being the son of a smuggler, but he didn't intend to have his throat cut the first night out. He was tempted by the Schooner, but it looked like she already had a full complement of crew, and besides, the ship seemed a mite ungainly. If he were going to leave, he might as well do it in style. The two-masted Brig though…. Once again, Jack ran his eyes over her, taking in her clean lines. True, she was getting on a bit, and was a little worse for wear, but she had the air of an aging aristocrat, or an elderly racehorse that might have one last good gallop in her. Abruptly Jack smiled, the first time he had done so since the news of his mother's death. "I like you," he told the ship silently.

Her name was the Mary Ellen, he found as he drew nearer. Upon closer inspection his first impressions were borne out. Her paint was flaking and her sails were worn, but everything that could be patched had been, and her canvas was tidily mended. Somebody definitely cared about this ship. Best of all though, she seemed to be short-handed. A number of sailors were struggling to get the water and rum barrels on board, while a few others were lashing down the boats. A large man with a red beard, probably about forty or so, stood on the dock, directing the crew as they loaded the cargo onto the ship. A flicker of recognition went through Jack at the man's accent.

Cornish.

"Gussenup angitten or I'll skat 'ee," the man shouted to one sailor, who glowered at him before heading down the gangplank to fetch two sacks of flour, which he hoisted over his shoulder.

"Deeth daa," Jack said, dredging up the little Cornish that he actually remembered. Then he lapsed back into English, though purposely broadening his vowels. He had always been good at accents, tending to pick up whatever was spoken around him. The master cartographer he had served under hailed from East London, so his own accent was currently an odd mixture of Cornish, Somerset, and Londoner. Now though, he let his childhood intonation return. "Where 'ee bound?"

The bearded man paused and cast him a look. Jack had a feeling that he might have been told to bugger off, in no uncertain terms, if it hadn't been for the recognition of one Cornishman to another.

"Ceylon," Redbeard replied briefly, before turning to shout at another sailor.

Good enough. "Takin' on any crew?" Jack asked.

Redbeard turned and gave him a long slow look. Jack smiled back hopefully. The man's eyes narrowed.

"How old be 'ee?"

"Seventeen."

Redbeard looked doubtful and not for the first time Jack cursed his youthful looks. He _was_ seventeen, though he looked younger. He wasn't particularly tall or powerfully built, and probably never would be unless he put on a late growth spurt - although the scar over his right eyebrow did help a little. 'Maybe I should grow a beard,' Jack thought randomly. It couldn't hurt.

"'Ave 'ee sailed afore, lad?" Redbeard was asking.

Again, Jack was tempted to lie, but decided against it. Besides, if they did take him on they'd soon know he was a novice. Learning and talking about sailing was a far cry from actually doing it.

"No," he said. "But I can read any chart, I know a bowsprit from a gaff, and I'm strong. I learn fast."

The man turned away. "Don't have no time for beginners. Get away home wi'ee." Then he walked away, leaving Jack staring at the man's back.

Damn. Now what? Jack hesitated, torn between going after Redbeard again and giving the Schooner a try instead. He shifted his weight, his fingers toying with the satchel – and a large brawny hand came out of nowhere and clamped around his shoulder. Jack yelped and turned his head. The hand was attached to an even larger, brawnier body. Madsen. Hell's bells.

Madsen was his uncle's man. Driver, groom, and general dogs-body. And he was roughly the size of an elephant. A very large elephant. Jack jerked backwards, trying to break the man's grip, but he might as well have tried to hold back the tide. If Madsen had a hold of something, then that something stayed held until Madsen decided otherwise.

"Your uncle sent me," the man said calmly. Madsen was always calm.

"So I gathered. Let go."

"Sorry, boy." The large man shook his head. "Can't do that. I'm ordered to bring you back home."

"Well, that makes it difficult for both of us, doesn't it?" Jack said a little breathlessly as his shoulder began to go numb, "because I'm not going back."

"Yes you are."

Yes, he was, Jack realized glumly. Madsen could sling him over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carry him back to his uncle without even breaking a sweat. It wouldn't be the first time, either. 'Keep the boy out of trouble,' Edward Nelson had instructed his man when Jack had first arrived in Bristol. And Madsen had proceeded to do just that. In five years, Jack had never once succeeded in eluding or outwitting the groom.

Except this time he must. This time it was too important. For a moment Jack could almost see his future stretching out before him. Drawing maps. Earning a respectable but meagre living. Probably settling down with a local woman and having a bevy of brats. And every evening after work, coming to the docks to watch the ships set sail. Without him. The bleakness of it took his breath away. 'I can't do it,' Jack thought desperately. 'I won't.'

'So don't,' something inside him seemed to say. 'Fight back.'

But how? There was no way Jack could take Madsen in a fair fight, even if he had been several inches taller and a stone or two heavier. So maybe it was time to stop fighting fair…

Jack relaxed in Madsen's grip, allowing his shoulders – well, the one that was free, anyway – to slump as if in defeat. "Don't take on so," Jack said, pitching his voice so it carried across the docks, loudly and clearly. "I haven't told a soul your name. And none of the other lads would turn you in to the revenuers for the reward, I'll wager."

Around him, he could almost see the sailors pricking up their ears, shooting quick glances at the two of them. Madsen looked confused. "Eh? What're you on about?"

"'Twas someone else gave them your name." Jack forged gamely onward. "I swear on a stack of bibles it wasn't me. I know a hundred pound is a handsome sum, but I wouldn't turn you in, even for twice that. Wouldn't dare, would I?"

He almost had them now. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see men putting down their loads, beginning to move closer.

"Lad…" Madsen began warningly.

"Besides," Jack continued, his voice just a shade louder, "the cargo we took off that French ship down the coast is worth a fortune. I'd be a fool to turn you in for a measly hundred quid, and risk losing my share. 'Sides, nobody would be mad enough to take on someone like you, just for that."

As if on cue, a hand clamped down on Madsen's shoulder. Jack swallowed his grin. A sailor, almost as large as Madsen, looked menacingly at the groom.

"Maybe you should be letting the lad go," he growled.

"And maybe you should be minding your own business."

Another man had circled around to their left. "And maybe a hundred pound _makes_ it my business."

Madsen swore at him…then staggered backwards as the man's fist collided with his nose. The groom had to release his captive in order to hit the sailor back – and just like that Jack was free. Tightening his grip on his satchel, he dove between two sailors who were moving towards what was, by the sound of it, fast becoming an all-out brawl, skirted another man wielding a knife, then strolled nonchalantly down the dock, a faint spring in his step.

"Lad!" The voice was sharp. Jack froze then turned to meet the stern gaze of the red-bearded man he had spoken to earlier. The man's eyes narrowed.

"There b'ain't no reward, be there?"

Jack swallowed. "Ah…no. Not really. But I'm sure Madsen is worth a hundred pounds to _somebody._"

A long moment passed, then Redbeard laughed. "Right little heller 'ee are." He rubbed his beard. "Are 'ee still looking to make sail?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder, to see Madsen disappear briefly beneath a flurry of bodies before coming back up, throwing punches right and left. "Aye," he replied. Preferably soon.

"Be 'ee in any trouble with the law?"

"Not yet," Jack grinned at him. Redbeard laughed again and stuck out his hand.

"A'right then. I'm Captain Penhallow. We lost half the crew to pirates last trip out. If 'ee work hard I'll see 'ee get an equal share of the profits, same as any other. If 'ee give us any trouble like I just saw, I'll tip 'ee over the side meself. Savvy?"

Jack took his hand and shook it firmly. "Savvy."

Penhallow nodded. "Right. Get on up there, introduce yourself to the bosun and do what he tells 'ee."

Unable to contain his smile, Jack turned and began to climb the gangplank.

"Lad!" The Captain shouted.

Jack turned. "Yes?"

"Yer name."

"Jack. Jack White."

Penhallow nodded. "Welcome aboard the Mary Ellen, Jack White."

Jack closed his eyes as a wave of nostalgia swept over him. The Mary Ellen had been a good ship, and Captain Penhallow's sailors a good crew. Between them, they had turned Jack into a sailor. He had learned to caulk decks, keep watch, and mend canvas. He had seen more of the world in eighteen months than he had in his entire life. Of course, it had all come to an end when Penhallow had died of a fever near Madagascar. The Mary Ellen herself had followed him soon after, going down in a tropical storm off the coast of India. Jack had barely escaped with his life. Nevertheless, they were good times. He had certainly never regretted leaving behind the respectable life of a cartographer. Even now, tired, aching and trapped in a filthy bilge, Jack wouldn't change a single thing.

Well, maybe just one. He would have killed Harry Covenant when he had the chance.


	5. Chapter 5

V. CORNWALL 

He had been right; there was a storm brewing. Jack could feel it in the air, in the way the Revenge skittered under his feet, sending little waves through the bilge water. In the distance he could hear the rumble of thunder. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories that a storm always brought.

Jack had been ten the first time he'd gone out with the Gentlemen. His mother had created such a fuss he'd thought he'd never go. But Dad had won and had taken him down the dark lane and across the frost-covered fields until they had met the others on the steep path to the shore. Lookout was his job, and for the next two hours he had lain as quiet as could be on the cliff top, eyes and ears open for any sound of approach. He'd been frozen to the marrow long before his dad had returned, but elated that he'd been of help.

The rush of excitement had always been there, right from the first night. From his vantage point Jack had watched the flash of a lantern out at sea, and heard the splash of oars as a boat was rowed into shore. Around him, the night dwellers had ignored the humans on the beach. A fox had scurried by, sending shivers down Jack's back as he heard the rustle of the undergrowth. Almost he'd given the alarm, but common sense had won out. All his life he'd heard the sounds of night and not worried. The owl that screeched over his head had almost been his undoing though. The sound had torn into him, setting every nerve quivering until he had almost wet himself. He'd never been so happy to see his dad as when he had came to fetch him home.

As he'd grown, and still over his mother's arguments, Jack had progressed from lookout to carrying the signal lantern - though the first time he'd been allowed down the beach, his dad had cuffed him a good one round the ear for making too much noise. From then on he'd tiptoed across the crunchy pebbles until he stepped foot on the clean sand. Two years it had taken to get to that stage; it would be another year perhaps before he could help with the unloading.

He'd met young William Turner there, a lad only a few years his senior but already a trusted member of the smugglers. 'Bootstrap' they'd nicknamed him on account of when he was young his dad was forever telling him to tie his shoes up properly. Jack had heard that the first time Turner had gone out with them he'd come a cropper down the steep path to the beach on account of his shoelaces being undone. Jack was thankful he only owned a pair of boots and had vowed that would always be the case.

For two years they had had no trouble. Oh the excise men had their suspicions all right - but they had yet to catch them. Everyone in the village had someone involved in the trade - there would be no telling tales from any of them. And the gentry, well they were more than happy to turn a blind eye to what was going on; after all wasn't it them who profited by paying less for their fancy clothes and fine brandy?

It was a filthy night. It had been raining steadily since morning. Clouds heavy with water hung over the coast, keeping honest folk indoors. The Gentlemen had congregated near the byway to discuss the likelihood of the cutter being able to make it that night. It wasn't so much the cargo ship they were worried about, but the long boat that would have to deliver the goods to the shore. The sea was angry, lashing against the shore and the base of the cliffs in neverending rollers. Jack had often wondered what it would feel like to be tossed by the sea like that. The closest he'd ever got had been going out on one of the small fishing boats when he'd been a lad. It didn't frighten him at all, and whenever he had a chance he had gone up to the cliffs to spend hours just watching the changing colours and the constant movement of the sea, dreaming of distant lands.

"We'd best be there, just in case," Jem stated, spitting into the rain.

"Ah, but the riders," his dad said. "They've been nosing round just lately. What if they knows something's up? Maybe we should leave the boy behind? I don't want him being taken up; his mother'd have me guts for garters."

Jack stood next to his dad, shaking his head. "I can take care of meself, dad, no bother. You'll need me to hold the lantern for you."

His dad landed a warm hand on his shoulder, grinning at the other men. "Ripe for anything ain't he? But you can't come on the beach tonight lad. You go on lookout, and mind you keep a sharp eye. If them excise men come looking we need to know right sharp!"

Jack felt a wave of disappointment go through him, but he knew the importance of keeping watch.

His dad slapped his battered hat onto Jack's head, the brim dipping down over his forehead. The hat was a good few sizes too big but it kept the rain out of his eyes. "Here lad, take care of me hat for me. It's too wild down on shore to keep it safe."

Jack grinned then and tossed his dad a casual salute before taking up his watch.

And so it had gone. Come the early hours, when the tide was right for the landing, Jack was positioned high up on the cliff watching the by-lane that led from the village. William Turner was at the other end, keeping a weather eye on the coast road. Above them the clouds seemed oppressively low. Thunder rumbled out at sea and great forks of lightning sizzled into the water, brightening the sky for brief seconds at a time. It was a foul night to try to land, but the weather had already put them off for two nights now. The French cutter couldn't hover out at sea for much longer without the coastal patrols finding them. And if the ship were caught she would either be blown out of the water or escorted into port, and all the crew imprisoned…or worse.

Rain had collected in the brim of his hat and Jack tipped the water from it while sparing a look over the cliff edge. He could see nothing of the men there, though he knew that his father and ten other strong men from the village were huddled against the cliff. Out to sea there was a brief flash of orange, the signal that the long boat had been launched. From where he lay he couldn't see the return signal but he could hear the slight crunch of gravel underfoot as the villagers moved forward.

The boat was almost unloaded when it happened.

The excise men had avoided the roads entirely and had snuck along the shore, coming at the villagers from both sides, calling for them to desist and give themselves up in the name of the King.

Someone - Jack never knew who - fired a pistol, a man cried out, and Jack's heart was suddenly racing as fear gripped him. Men were running in all directions, some heading for the cliff path and Jack's hiding place, others tussling with the soldiers on the beach. Jack stood up, not knowing what to do. Part of him was terrified - he had never even heard a gun fired before, let alone seen such violence as was occurring on the beach below.

And somewhere down there was his dad.

Scrambling quickly down the path, Jack passed men coming up, all of whom tried to grab him, to drag him back up to the cliff with them. He dodged their grasping hands, taking extraordinary risks to keep out of their reach, the only thought in his head to find his dad and get him out of there in one piece.

It was William who stopped Jack's headlong flight, having come down the steeper path at the other end of the beach. He'd seen the men coming but couldn't make himself heard over the pounding rain and rumbling thunder. One look at the debacle on the beach, and William had turned and run to the pathway Jack was trying so hard to descend, slamming straight into him and grabbing hold.

"Get back up there, young Jack. Nothing we can do down here."

Even as William spoke, another pistol went off. William was pushing Jack now, hurrying him back up the path, overbearing him with his extra inches. Over the last two years William had grown into a substantial young man as opposed to Jack's comparatively willowy form. Fear-enhanced strength or not, Jack was no match for the heavier boy.

Something flashed below them and Jack, working on some inner instinct, stopped dead in his tracks and used all his strength to push William to one side, catching him by surprise, and throwing himself backwards as he did so. Quick Jack may have been, but not fast enough to dodge the bullet that barrelled past his face, clipping his eyebrow and sending a rush of blood down his face. He didn't remember much after that, only William's arm around him, dragging him back to the cottage and then his mother's horrified face.

All that night he dreamed - terrible, terrible dreams. His father shot down by an excise man. His father, drowning in the violent sea. His father's smile as he slapped Jack on the shoulder, telling his friends how proud he was of his little smuggler. And over it all, the rumble of thunder.

Next morning when Jack awoke, his first thought was for his dad. Head pounding, right eye almost shut where swollen flesh pressed against his eyeball, he quietly made his way into the other room. There his mother sat, her face almost frozen though he could see she had been crying. Her eyes held a wealth of sadness that cut him to the core.

"Mum?"

There was something in her stillness that made his heart begin to batter itself against his ribs.

"I warned him. Didn't I warn him, Jack? But he never listened to me. Always knew best, he said. Well not this time."

He came to stand at her side, his arm curling around her shoulder in an awkward gesture of comfort.

"They cut him down, Ned said. Bullet took him right in the chest. He didn't stand a chance. Excise men took him away and he won't ever be coming back." The bleak look on her face told him everything he didn't want to know. In his mind Jack relived the gunshot he had heard, and the scream that had followed. Even then some part of him had known whose cry he had heard.

Afraid of the tears that threatened his control, Jack tore out of the cottage, running across the fields to the cliff top, to stare down at the now empty beach. Then, more slowly, Jack worked his way down the steep path, made more treacherous by the heavy rain the night before, his hand touching the cliff face as he tried to judge his steps with only one good eye. It was halfway down that he found the hat. Battered and stained by the rain, it lay where it had fallen during that mad flight just a few short hours ago. Jack picked it up, fingers running round the brim to straighten out the soggy leather and once more he heard his dad's voice, telling him to take care of the hat for him.

"I will, dad," he promised softly.

Two days after the funeral Jack was on his way to Bristol to stay with his Uncle Edward. He was to learn a trade and become respectable. His mother had been most insistent - she would not lose her son the same way she had lost her husband. And, for all the rebellion that Jack felt in his soul, he couldn't deny her this.

He was supposed to be the man of the house now – at twelve years of age. His place was in Cornwall, looking after his mother, filling his father's shoes as best he could. It wasn't what he wanted but what was right. He had dreamed of a life out at sea when he was full-grown, visiting lands he'd only heard tell of. And now he was to draw the maps that would guide travellers to the places he so wanted to visit.

His dreams might lay elsewhere, but his heart still remained in Cornwall, in the little village that had been his whole life until this moment.

And, even in his sorrow and guilt, Jack couldn't quite help the way his heart beat just a little faster at the thought of seeing more of the world – even if it were only Bristol.


	6. Chapter 6

VI. TORTUGA 

Depressing thoughts seemed to be Jack's constant companion. And Harry's ship wasn't lightening his mood either. Twice now the Revenge's motion had tossed Jack into the dark murky waters and he was forced to conclude that the ship didn't like him. Well, the feeling was mutual.

There were times when Jack found his long hair a problem - this was one of them. It stunk. His dip in the bilge water had soaked more than just his clothes. His moustache and beard held the foul stench of Covenant's bilge water, as did his hair. Stripping off the red bandanna, he twisted his hair tightly to get what water he could out of it, then undid the plait which hung down in a soggy mess at the back of his head. As he squeezed water from his hair, his fingers encountered the beads he had so recently plaited in. From there his fingers strayed to older ornamentation, and the dark bilge faded away as Jack's thoughts returned to Tortuga…and one visit there in particular. That had been a good time and he couldn't resist the reminiscent smile that lit his face in the gloom.

It was one day until Jack's twenty-first birthday - if he had kept count correctly, that was. And to celebrate, the Bloody Cutlass was heading into the natural harbour that made Tortuga such a haven for the pirate brethren. Not that the rest of the crew knew they were celebrating their youngest pirate's birthday.

Anticipation brightened Jack's eyes as he stared at the crowded mass of houses that constituted civilisation in this part of the island. The town pushed its dirty skirts right up to the harbour, its life ebbing and flowing with the tide.

Jack was high above the deck, furling the last of the sails as the ship glided into place by the harbour wall. Their last foray had been a good one and each man had more than enough to enjoy the time they would have on the island. Captain Telford had given them all two weeks before he'd be hiring once again. He was a good captain and brought them plenty of booty, but was strict as hell. Heaven help the crewman who went against the articles he had set out. Ex-Navy, he ran a tight ship, though his attitude toward plunder and the fair distribution of wealth gladdened his crew's hearts. Perhaps if the British had treated him better he'd have stayed with them, but there was little chance of promotion and even less recompense for the work done. Why take the King's shilling when he could plunder good Spanish gold?

"Jack, get your skinny backside down here. Let's go and enjoy ourselves!"

Jack glanced down at Bootstrap's upturned face split in the biggest smile he'd seen in a long while. He grinned back and, with all the agility of a monkey, he scampered down to the deck.

"And where, you dog of a pirate, are we going to start?" Jack clapped his old friend hard on the back.

"First I have to send some of these," Bootstrap jingled the coins in his pocket, "back to Maggie and the boy, then how about meeting at Lizzies place?"

Jack's feral grin lit his face. He was still full of rampaging hormones and curiosity, both of which he had indulged in every port they had docked at, but he had a fondness for this place that had nothing to do with the brothels.

He stepped onto the jetty and strolled toward the main street letting the sights and smells surrounding him permeate into his senses. So much life, so much energy. Jack felt it light a fuse within him, until he was ready to explode from it all. For a moment he stood still, eyes closed, feeling welcomed and wanted in a way he had never experienced anywhere else.

"Hello, sweetie. Want a good time? You're a pretty lad; if it's your first time I'll give you a discount."

She was older than him by more than a handful of years; her figure overripe and not terribly clean. Jack wasn't usually so fussy, but this time around he had money in his pocket and he could afford better. Just to see how different it could be. A quickie up against a wall, or the five minutes at Lizzie's wasn't what he wanted this time around. He could get drunk anywhere, and probably would, but first he had other needs to attend to. Climbing the hill, trading comments with unfamiliar faces, he headed to Madame Bernice's bordello.

Standing outside, he caught his reflection in the curtained window. He did look young, Jack decided. Bare chin, hair pulled back into a ponytail, he appeared a mere stripling, not a man of nearly twenty-one. Pulling the band from his hair, he let it fall forward till it hung around his shoulders and studied the effect. He still looked years younger than his age, though it was something of an improvement. Perhaps the bandanna? He dragged the dirty red rag he sometimes wore on board ship from his back pocket and tied it around his head, stepping back to admire the effect. Better. Definitely better. And better yet, as of now he was growing a beard. Or at least he would try. Shaving had never been a huge problem for him. Jack's long fingers caressed the smooth skin as he grimaced at his reflection. His reflective mood didn't last long though, and with an anticipatory grin, he hammered on the door. His smile broadened as he saw who had answered, turning the full effect of his dark brown eyes and winning smile on the dark haired lovely who stood in the doorway.

The hangover was a beauty. From all around him came the cacophony of sound that heralded the beginning of a new day. The tavern staff were cleaning up from the night before, prodding into wakefulness those drunks who still slumbered in their chairs, or in Jack's case, on the floor. Propping himself up on one elbow he prised open one eye then quickly shut it again. Groaning only made his head ache even more, so he stifled the moan that was threatening to escape and prepared himself to try again. Bright daylight scorched his brain as Jack opened his eyes to the new day and he did groan, sending a sledgehammer pounding into his skull. He _really_ needed a drink.

Some three drinks later he was upright and mobile once more. Little memory of the night before lingered in his tender brain. Well, not much after he had left the bordello and found Bootstrap. The two of them had embarked on some serious drinking, and perhaps some singing? He wasn't sure about that bit - but then he wasn't sure about a lot of things at this hour of the morning.

He aimed his footsteps toward the docks. Time to find Bootstrap and get some breakfast. Grog was fine, but did little to keep a man on his feet and energised. Jack had every intention of paying a return visit to Madame Bernice's. He'd learned a lot last evening from a happy-go-lucky whore who had taken a fancy to him. He smiled inwardly; he'd proven he was no boy last night.

Turning the corner into the main street, eyes still unfocussed, Jack didn't see the light carriage that was coming the other way. His head shot up as he heard the warning cry but it was too late and he was far too uncoordinated to dodge out of the way. The near-side wheel brushed against him, sending him sprawling onto his back against the hard cobblestones and reanimating the remnants of his hangover, setting the hammers battering at his temples once more.

For a long moment Jack lay still, face up and staring at the blue cloudless sky, wondering why he always ended up flat on his back. It wasn't that he was accident prone. No, just someone up there having a laugh at his expense. His internal musings faded as a pair of stunning green eyes came into view, looking down at him in concern.

"Oh, ma pauvre! Are you all right? Can you move?" With a rustle of silk, the sweet-smelling creature moved closer.

Jack lifted his head experimentally as she smiled at him encouragingly. "Be careful, little one – wait, Jules will help you."

That was it. He was definitely growing a beard…and a moustache. And maybe he would get some tattoos and another scar. Perhaps a nice slice down his face to match the one through his eyebrow. He was fed up with everyone seeing him as a child! Jack let his head drop back to the ground groaning - and immediately regretted his action as pain lanced from the back of his skull to meet the pounding over his eyes.

Jules turned out to be the brawny individual who had been driving the carriage. With the lady watching carefully, Jack was helped to his feet and he got his first good look at her. And, for the first time he found himself having to look _up_ to see a woman's eyes. She was taller than he by at least two or three inches, and built on statuesque lines that would not look amiss on the prow of a ship. Plus, he was quick to note, she was dripping with jewellery. Jack staggered a little then added a moan for good measure, having seen the sudden sympathy in her eyes.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" Her accent blurred her words delightfully.

"No, m'lady." He'd found it never hurt to be polite to the ladies. "My ship docked a while ago and I haven't found another berth yet. I've nowhere to lay my head tonight."

"Mon Dieu, and you so jeune! You must come to my home until you are well."

Jack decided he like the sound of her voice almost as much as he liked the look of the diamond pendant around her neck and the exposed bosom where it lay. He may not understand the foreign words, but her compassion was evident in every one of them.

After giving him a painkilling draught they put him to bed in a room that was the size of his old cottage in Cornwall. The bed was the most luxurious thing he had ever seen, its fine cotton sheets sliding sensuously under his fingers.

"Sleep mon petite moineau. I will have someone call you when dinner is ready." Jack watched her leave through slitted eyes, feigning a tiredness he no longer felt. And, thanks to the foul tasting medicine m'lady had made him drink, his hangover was a pale ghost of its former self.

The moment the door closed he was out of bed and checking through the closets and drawers. Satins and heavy brocades met his questing fingers, undergarments in the finest silks and lace that made his eyes light up. It seemed he was in m'lady's own rooms! He searched diligently for any sign of a jewellery box, or a hiding place for her gems but found nothing. He was still standing in the middle of the room, a pair of her silk drawers in one hand when he heard footsteps outside the door. Hastily, he dove for the bed, shoving the knickers under the covers and closing his eyes.

Jack felt the bed dip under her weight and the cool touch of her fingers on his forehead. Keeping his eyes tight shut he continued to feign sleep. Her touch was stirring parts of him that he would be better off keeping under control, for the moment at least. But when her fingers trailed down across his cheek to lay softly against his lips he couldn't help but open his eyes and found himself drowning in her gaze. Jack gulped and realised that, for once, he was in way over his head.

"So, you are awake after all." Her hands now rested on either side of him, perforce pinning him to the bed. Not that he minded, Jack thought, watching the diamond pendant swing slowly towards him as she moved forward.

"Tell me who you are. You are so young to be at sea."

Jack had been toying with names for quite a while now, not really feeling that John White had quite the right ring to inspire dread. As a pirate bold, he needed something with a bit more cachet, a little more style. The crew of the Bloody Cutlass just knew him as Jack, or more commonly _young _Jack. Only Bootstrap knew his real name, as he knew his.

"Jack Hawke, m'lady. And I'm not so young, I'm twenty-five." Well if you're going to lie, might as well make it a good one. Besides, he thought, that might put him a little closer to her age.

Her fingers scraped against his smooth chin and her eyes twinkled at him.

"So, a man then?"

"Aye," he said firmly, pushing himself up. He felt too much at her mercy laid flat on his back. Not that he'd pass up the opportunity to get horizontal with her later on…just not right now.

"And Hawke, qu'est-ce-que c'est? I have not heard this name before. Does it have a meaning?"

Jack thought rapidly, wondering how he had come to that name. He caught her eye, saw the curiosity and kindness there and found himself telling the truth, much to his own amazement.

"It means freedom. To be able to go where I want, do what I want. To have no cage around me."

It was obvious from her puzzled gaze that she didn't understand everything he'd said, so he tried once again.

"It's the name of a bird," he began, flapping his arms and pretending to fly, though severely hampered by the bed linen. He let his hands swoop and soar in an expression of the bird in flight.

"Ah, like the moineau I named you." She nodded, setting her dark hair dancing.

Jack nodded, hoping they were on the same line of thought.

"M'lady, may I ask the name of the person to whom I owe my rescue?" God, he was proud of that sentence. Spending all that time with his uncle must finally be paying dividends.

The bright green eyes danced wickedly as she replied. "I am Genevieve Charmant."

Jack's eyes widened, his jaw dropped and he let his head fall into his hands. He had been rummaging through the undergarments of the Governor's mistress!

As he bent forward, the cover slid further down, exposing the silk drawers he had tried to hide. His hostess reached forward and picked them up, eyeing him speculatively.

"I hope you do not intend to wear these? I do not think they would suit you at all!" She dropped the garment onto the bed shaking her head. "Such a waste. But maybe you have been at sea too long, little one."

"I am not a little one, and…" Good god, had she just suggested he was…? Well, he'd better scotch that idea, right now. After all, wasn't that how rumours got started? Jack leant forward suddenly, catching her unawares, his hands on either side of her face as he kissed her as thoroughly as he knew how.

For the next week and a half no one from the Bloody Cutlass even _saw_ Jack. He was quite happily ensconced with Genny in her home while the Governor was away on business - and a fine time was had by both. But he knew it had to end. He was no more than a toy to her, and he wanted no cage, however gilded, to tie him down.

"I have a little gift for you."

Her voice woke him from his half-asleep state, his head still cushioned on his arms where they rested on the table. She was sitting beside his chair, her fingers working a slim strand of his hair into a plait. He watched her fingers moving deftly through his locks, remembering how good they had felt on his skin.

"Come, look." Genny pulled him up and dragged him to the mirror over the fireplace. She had plaited into his hair a set of beads that pulled uncomfortably at his scalp.

"They come from the America's. I was told they bring bon chance to the wearer. I think you might need it, Jacques. It is a difficult life you have chosen."

Jack didn't like the feel of the beads in his hair much, but the more he looked at them, the more he liked the effect, and the thought that lay behind them – a way to remember the generous woman who stood behind him now, admiring the effect of her handiwork.

"Mon petite moineau, you will take care of yourself?"

He kissed her soundly before pulling back and asking the question that had been in his mind since their first day together.

"Just what is a moineau?" Jack asked. "It's not something cute and cuddly - is it?" suddenly horrified at the possible affectionate appellation.

She smiled at him with a disconcerting twinkle in her eyes. "It is a bird, mon cher, flying free as you do."

Jack was drunk. Again. The last two days had passed in a haze. The Governor had returned and Jack had left his cosy little nest to wander the streets of the town once more, getting as drunk as he could in as many places as he could manage. And now it was his last night before signing back on the Bloody Cutlass and he wanted to do something special.

The tattooist watched Jack with eyes that said he'd seen this all so many times before. A drunk sailor wanting a tattoo. Always had to be something special, something no one else had. The only problem at that moment was a complete and utter lack of communication. Jack's French was non-existent and the tattooist's English was barely more. And the interpreter had disappeared with his doxy.

Jack's flapping of arms to indicate the hawk he wanted on his forearm, had led to a series of false starts until eventually he came up with the one French word that he knew meant bird. Moineau.

The tattooist nodded his understanding, and finally got the idea that Jack wanted a sparrow flying across water. Not what he would have chosen, but the young man was paying.

Jack took a hefty swig of rum as the man began. God, it hurt! He took a second, and then a third drink until the room began to spin around his head and the pain became just an annoyance in the background of his mind.

Bleary eyed and a little the worse for wear, Jack presented himself to the Cutlass the next morning. Since he'd woken in the street outside the tattoo parlour he'd been eyeing his acquisition with disfavour. No way that was a hawk, etched forever onto his arm. Looked more like a bloody sparrow, skinny little thing. Didn't the man understand French!

"Jack," The captain called, and he stepped forward. "You've more than proved yourself over the last few years, I'm putting you in charge of ship's rigging. Articles as before, do you agree?"

His new position would mean a slightly larger share of any haul; there was no way Jack would forego that. He grinned.

Up until now he'd always signed as just Jack, which was more than the majority of the crew could do, most of them being illiterate. As Jack leaned forward to pick up the quill his sleeve rode up revealing the new tattoo, and the beads Genny had put in his hair swung forward, obscuring his view. He smiled to himself and signed with a flourish – Jack Sparrow.

It might not instil fear in the hearts of seafaring folk currently sailing the seven seas, but it was unusual and would not be forgotten. And neither would Genny for giving him the idea – bless her.

A shadow crossed over him and Jack looked up at a tall pirate leaning against the port rail nearby. Jack hadn't seen him before; he must be new to the Cutlass then. The man held himself with assurance and his eyes told of experiences going back many years.

Jack nodded to him and raised a brow. "Jack Sparrow, in charge of rigging."

The stranger nodded back, "Barbossa. Bosun this trip."

A strange sensation settled in Jack's stomach, almost as though he was finally going to succumb to seasickness, something he'd never done before.

He shook his head and headed off to find a sip or two of rum – just to settle his stomach of course.

Jack sighed and kicked at the Revenge's bilge water. Of course, if he had known then what he knew now, he'd have simply run Barbossa through and saved them both a lot of trouble. Not that he could have run him through then; after all, it was Barbossa who had taught him how to use a sword. And he'd been glad enough of that tuition on many an encounter.

He settled himself against the packing case once more, trying to find a drier spot to sit. The storm outside seemed to be having a detrimental effect on Harry's ship as water seeped in with a little more force than Jack was happy with. Yes - the bilge water was definitely rising and if Harry didn't send someone down to sort out the situation soon, Jack wouldn't need to worry about being hanged in the morning – he'd be drowning instead.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII. THE BLACK PEARL**

The lamp was sputtering. It wouldn't last much longer. Not that it mattered by this point. Jack now knew every inch of the Revenge's bilge, and was on a first-name basis with every bilge rat. He shuddered again. At least that had been one good thing about the curse that had afflicted the Black Pearl – no rats. True, they'd probably infest his ship again the very next time she made port, but it had been a pleasant few hours, sailing on a rat-free ship. Even the barnacles and shipworm seemed to have avoided the Pearl, Jack had found as he had pored over her from stem to stern. It almost made the curse worth having.

Almost.

No, the sight of his darling, with those tattered black sails and a layer of what could best be described as death and ashes coating her sides…no, that wasn't something he ever wanted to see again. She had been a far cry from the beauty he had first seen, that day ten years ago…

She was the loveliest thing Jack had ever seen. Looking back, he realized afterwards that that was the moment he had fallen in love. Which was bloody stupid, really, given that the ship he had fallen in love with was manned by dozens of the Navy's finest, and was at that very moment swooping down on the Bloody Cutlass like a stooping hawk.

She wasn't called the Black Pearl, of course, back then. Captain Telford, standing on the pirate ship's quarterdeck had whipped out his spyglass and hollered out the ship's name to his crew, who were frantically hoisting every sail they had in an attempt to escape their pursuers.

"'Tis the Kingston Rose!"

Jack had exchanged blank glances with O'Dell as they hauled on the topgallant halyard. The Kingston Rose? He had never heard of her… No, wait. Hadn't there been mention of an English galleon, newly commissioned for the Navy, the last time the Cutlass had made port? The something-Rose. That must be her then. Jack risked another glance over his shoulder at the ship bearing down on them, while he tied off the line.

She was wonderful. Black hull, white sails, and curves that could make a grown man cry. The name didn't suit her at all. She wasn't a bloody flower – she was stronger than that. Something to be treasured. Like a pearl, maybe. A black pearl…

A galleon shouldn't be able to move that fast, Jack thought as he moved with O'Dell to the next set of lines. She certainly shouldn't be able to outrun the Bloody Cutlass, one of the fastest little sloops in the Caribbean. Nevertheless, there she was, happily ignoring all the laws of physics as she came up behind the Cutlass and stole the wind from the pirate ship's sails. It was at that moment, as the galleon moved alongside and the first cannon shot breached the Cutlass' hull, that Jack realized two things. One – their capture was inevitable. And two – he had to have that ship.

The battle was brief, bloody, and decisive. Captain Telford died quickly, crushed under the mainmast as it fell, cut down by one of the galleon's cannon shells. Bootstrap took a musket ball in the arm, but managed to keep fighting with the other until an English Marine hit him over the head with the butt end of his musket, and he too went down. Jack didn't have time to spare a thought for his old friend though – he was too busy trying to organize the remaining pirates into some kind of effective fighting force, while his mind searched desperately for a plan – any plan. In the end it didn't matter – they had been outnumbered and outgunned from the very start. And so it was, less than a quarter hour after the Navy men and Marines had first boarded, that Jack, limping from a cut on his right thigh, found himself disarmed and shoved forward with the other survivors to stand near the Bloody Cutlass' starboard rail.

Their sloop had been aptly named, Jack thought bleakly as he watched the blood running across the Cutlass' deck and through the scuppers. Half the crew were dead, or near enough to make no difference – almost thirty pirates lay unmoving on the Cutlass' deck. Bootstrap was only semi-conscious, supported on two sides by Halton and LaSalle, but at least he was alive. For the moment.

This was bad.

The Naval Captain, a man of medium height with a slight squint, stepped forward and looked condescendingly at the tattered remnants of the pirate crew. He sniffed slightly, then said:

"Who is in charge here?"

Toffee-nosed bastard, Jack thought bitterly, then shoved his anger to the back of his mind. He had to think, and to do that he needed to be calm.

"I s'pose that would be me," Jack said, glancing at the other pirates to see if anyone would gainsay him. No one did. Granted, he had been First Mate prior to Telford's death, but that didn't automatically make him Captain now – that wasn't the way things worked on a pirate vessel. Still, it wasn't as if anyone else were jumping up and down to take on the job. Neither did they have the time or inclination for their usual vote - which put Jack squarely in charge, at least for the moment.

Actually it was the squinty-eyed Navy Captain who was in charge. Him and all those large men with the guns... Jack rubbed his throat. He could almost feel the noose tightening about it. Yes, this was very, very bad.

"And you would be?" the Captain said, contempt lacing his every word.

It was the contempt that made Jack throw his shoulders back and ignore the pain in his leg. "I _might_ be the bloody King of England," he said mockingly, "but as it is, the name is Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow." He rolled the new title around in his mind, trying it out and testing the feel of it. It felt good.

The Captain nodded at the sailor nearest Jack. The man reversed his musket and calmly slammed the butt of it into Jack's stomach. Jack doubled over and found himself with a close up view of the deck beneath his feet, wondering if his lunch were about to make a sudden reappearance. If he were going to cast up his accounts, he decided through the pain, he would aim for the Captain's shoes.

The man was talking again. "You, _Mister_ Sparrow, will keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll see that it's cut out." He turned to the rest of the prisoners and spoke louder. "I am Sir Granville Wells, Captain of His Majesty's ship the Kingston Rose. You are all under arrest for piracy. You will be transferred to my vessel where you will be transported to Port Royal for trial and subsequent hanging. Any attempt to escape will be met with immediate and lethal force. Do I make myself clear?"

Nobody answered. Jack straightened gingerly, clutching his stomach. "Clear as crystal, mate," he said.

Wells narrowed his eyes, then nodded once, briefly, before turning to a nearby Lieutenant. "Williams, I want to see them all in irons before even one of these… pirates…sets foot on my ship. Understood?" He grimaced, as if the word had brought a bad taste to his mouth.

"Aye aye, sir." Williams in turn gestured to another man, who moved forward with the required shackles.

Jack's mind was racing, even as he tried to keep his face impassive. Once he had those irons around his wrists, he was as good as dead. There had to be something he could do, some way out. Unfortunately, his captors seemed to have the same idea. As one, the Marines had all moved forward, training their weapons squarely on the pirates. One wrong move, Jack realized, and he would avoid the hangman's noose…by the simple manner of taking a musket ball in the heart.

This was bad - on an astronomical level.

It didn't take long to shackle the surviving pirates, which was just as well given the alarming way the Bloody Cutlass was listing to starboard. She must have taken a few cannon shots between wind and water, and now her holds were filling with seawater. The sloop was sinking fast and, with several pounds of cold iron clapped around his arms, there wasn't much Jack could do about it. Besides, he had other things to worry about. Once he and the others were tossed into the brig of the English galleon, it would only be a matter of time before he was swinging from a gallows in Port Royal – or worse, an iron cage. Definitely not the end he had in mind for Captain Jack Sparrow. No, if he were going to escape, he had to do it now, before he boarded the other ship. Besides, there was still the matter of taking the galleon – the Black Pearl, as he was calling her now in his mind. Despite the impossibility of his situation, he hadn't given up on that idea. If anything, his intent had been strengthened. She was meant to be his. He could feel it as surely as he could feel the sea-spray on his face and the late afternoon sun beating down on his back. They were supposed to be together. So, all he had to do was escape from the cream of the British Navy, remove the irons from about his wrist, and take the ship single-handedly. No problem, right?

After all, he was Captain Jack Sparrow.

It wasn't until Jack was crossing one of the planks the sailors had set up between the galleon and the listing sloop, that an idea finally hit him. Granted, it wasn't much of an idea, and it entailed a fair amount of risk – okay, to be honest with himself, it fell just short of suicide, and would quite probably be the stupidest thing he would ever do – but it was an idea. And the only one he had. With no hesitation, Jack pulled his hat from his head, clutched it securely in one hand…

…and dove off the plank into the narrow space between the two ships.

He hit the water cleanly, knifing through it like a seal, as shouts and musket fire erupted around him. Once in the water, he kept going, swimming downward as quickly as he could. He couldn't risk being crushed between the two ships, and he had to take into account the deeper draught of the galleon.

Actually, _down_ wasn't really a problem. The weight of the irons, coupled with the strength of his dive, had sent him plunging deeper rather more rapidly than he had expected. The sea was already beginning to darken…and his lungs were beginning to politely request that he get them some air.

Surely he was far enough down by now? Jack glanced up but couldn't make out the keel of the Pearl. He must be partway underneath her. Fortunately the ocean currents were on his side, taking him in the direction he wanted to go, toward the stern. But the irons were still dragging at him and his lungs were becoming more insistent. He managed to kick off first one boot, then the other, lightening his load a little, but his descent nevertheless continued, albeit more slowly.

The polite request from his lungs had turned into an unrelenting clamour. Up. Now. Jack tried, desperately, but his chained arms were next to useless and he was forced to rely on his legs only. It seemed to take an age, but at last he began to rise, thought not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough. The surface was still too far away. His chest was on fire now, red-hot knives slicing through him as he fought the urge to inhale. His heart and head were pounding, desperate for the oxygen he was denying them, and pain shot through every labouring muscle. Drowning hurt, Jack discovered. A lot.

Maybe this hadn't been the best plan after all.

It was the sea itself that came to Jack's aid. Perhaps it was the current, or maybe he hit a patch of water with a higher salt content, but whatever it was, Jack suddenly found himself shooting upward like a cork from a wine-bottle…straight toward the Black Pearl's bottom. He cracked his head against her keel with such violence that he would have seen stars – if they weren't already flashing across his eyes due to the lack of air. He had a single moment of terror that the barnacles would rip him to pieces before he realized that there were none. This ship was still so new the creatures hadn't had a chance to fasten onto her keel. Then, vision blurring and heart ready to explode, he half-swam, half-felt his way out the last few yards and surfaced at last.

Jack tried to breathe quietly, still acutely aware of his danger from above, but for the first few moments he could do little besides suck in great gasps of air as fast as possible and try to muffle the coughing fit that threatened to overtake him. Breathing had never felt so good, he realized distantly. Even if Wells' men plucked him out of the ocean and hanged him from the Pearl's highest yardarm, or shot him dead where he was, it would surely be better than what he had just gone through.

"So help me, I am _never_ going to die by drowning," Jack swore to himself between breaths. "Or by keel-hauling. _Especially_ keel-hauling."

Eventually, his heart and lungs settled down and his vision cleared. Blinking away the seawater, Jack looked around…and his spirits lifted. He was exactly where he had wanted to be – right underneath the Pearl's stern, hidden beneath the high overhang of her aftercastle. Fortunately, the Cutlass was much shorter in length than the galleon, so there was no chance anyone might spot him from the other ship. On the other hand, his "plan" still left him chained and treading water beneath the Black Pearl. If he couldn't find something to hold onto, and soon, she would leave him behind…or he would sink. He could keep himself afloat for a while but eventually he would get tired – well, _more_ tired – and down he would go, straight to Davy Jones' Locker. And if he stayed where he was, Jack was in danger of being pulled under the ship, or caught up in her rudder.

Time for a new plan.

He could try to climb up the rudder chain and crawl through one of the sternchaser's gun ports, Jack thought as he peered upwards. It wouldn't be easy, especially with his hands tied, but it was better than the alternative. And it had the added benefit of being done before. He wouldn't be the first pirate to board a ship that way. No, the real question was whether there would be any crew still manning the guns. After the broadside that had scuppered the Bloody Cutlass, the Pearl's gun decks would be full of smoke, but not so thick that the crew wouldn't notice one slightly soggy pirate climbing through a gun port. And even though the Cutlass was beyond hope, the gunners would probably be still at their posts, until ordered otherwise. And after that there would be the cleanup, readying the guns for their next action.

No. Better to wait. Which still left Jack with the problem of where, precisely, to wait and somehow avoid both detection _and _drowning. He couldn't hear much from above, but it sounded like the crew were preparing to hoist the sails even now. He didn't have much time.

The Pearl's stern drew his gaze again. She was intricately carved, with patterns and designs etched into her wood. Nothing that would slow her down or interfere with her movement, but carvings nonetheless. And there, just above him – one corner of a design that reminded Jack of a stylised seahorse. Its tail jutted upward, just a little. It wouldn't be much of a handhold but it would have to do. It was high enough above the water line that he wouldn't have to worry about the rudder, but still far beneath anyone's prying eyes. Reaching it, and holding onto it though – those would be the real challenges. The ledge was at least three feet above his head and already his legs were beginning to protest as he struggled to keep himself afloat. Jack wasn't sure he would have the strength to hold on once the ship began to move. Actually, at nine knots or more, he _knew_ he wouldn't. But…there were still the chains around his wrist. A tired grin began to pull at Jack's lips, his gold teeth glinting in the shadows. Maybe he should thank Captain Wells for clapping him in irons after all. Because the chains might just save his life _and_ help him steal the ship.

Life was nothing if not ironic.

The next hour or so pretty much redefined pain for Jack. He had managed, after two or three attempts, to loop the chains around the tail of the seahorse design, and after that it had simply been a matter of hanging on. Or rather, simply hanging there while clinging to consciousness with everything he had. The ship had set sail quickly, leaving the Bloody Cutlass wallowing on her side behind them. Jack hadn't seen his old ship go down, and he was glad of it. It was painful enough watching any ship sink, let alone one that had been his home for several years. No, he had been too busy trying to keep his arms from being torn out of his sockets as the galleon had gained speed. He had managed to brace himself against the ship for a while, but eventually his strength had given out and he had ended up being dragged.

The Pearl was definitely fast. He had known that on one level as the black galleon had swooped down upon the Cutlass out of nowhere. But being pulled along behind her while she raced through the waves brought it all home on a much more - profound – level. Fortunately the seas were smooth, and, just as fortunately, the Cutlass had been captured late in the day. The sun was already sinking, colouring the sea pink and crimson. Soon Jack would have the cover of darkness he needed. Assuming his arms were still attached, that was. Still, best not to worry. He had done all he could. Now he just had to hold on. And wait.

And hope.

Praying might not be a bad idea either.

In the end it was all surprisingly easy. True, climbing the rudder chain with arms that felt as if they had been set on fire wasn't the most undemanding thing Jack had ever done. And he didn't so much climb through the gun port as fall through it, certain bits of his anatomy coming into hard and painful contact with the cannon stationed there. Luckily there had been no one nearby and he had had a few precious seconds to writhe silently while the pain subsided.

The first man he encountered, a Marine guarding the lower decks, had fallen quickly and quietly after Jack hit him over the head with a lantern. Once armed, though still chained, the pirate had crept silently toward the brig where his shipmates were incarcerated. There, LaSalle had been able to use the knife that Jack had appropriated, to pick the lock of the door – and not inconsequentially, the irons around everyone's wrists, including Jack's. And then they had taken the ship.

Oh, it hadn't been as easy as that. The pirates were greatly outnumbered, and some of them, including Bootstrap, were wounded. Nevertheless, taking the blustering Captain Wells hostage, along with a few clever bluffs and Jack's final threat, delivered in a steely voice, to blow the gunpowder in the decks below and so take the sailors to the deepest level of hell along with the pirates – well, all that had taken the wind out of the Navy's sails. The sailors had been persuaded to take to the boats and leave their ship behind. The last view Jack had was of Captain Wells, still in his nightclothes and shaking his fist furiously, while Jack sailed the man's ship away.

No. She was _his_ ship now.

Jack took a long deep breath then tucked the pistol he had stolen into his waistband before turning from the wheel to where Bootstrap had been propped up nearby. Dried blood stained William Turner's shirt and his left hand was tucked into his belt, to avoid jarring his shoulder. Jack shot him a quick look.

"You going to live, mate?" he asked.

Bootstrap hesitated then nodded. "Probably. You?"

Jack took stock. His leg had begun to hurt again. The saltwater hadn't done the wound on his leg much good, and his shoulders were still sore from hanging from the ship's stern, but overall he was in good shape. In fact, he was better than good. For the first time he let himself look around, running a caressing hand over the ebony wood of the wheel. A grin he could no longer contain lit his face.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"They're going to call you soft, you know."

Jack gave Bootstrap a questioning glance. The other man nodded toward the stern, where the galleon's boats were slowly disappearing over the horizon. "They'll say you should have killed the crew, not set them free."

Jack shook his head. "No. We were outnumbered. Had we shot even one of them, the rest would have known their only hope was to rush us. They'd have retaken the ship and we'd be dead. 'Twas better this way."

"Better? Better for that Captain, and probably half the ships in the British fleet to come chasing after us? You call that better?"

Jack threw back his head and laughed. "Let them come. We've got the fastest ship in the Caribbean now. She's all ours."

Bootstrap snorted. "All _yours_, you mean. You know they'll vote you Captain. I'll eat O'Dell's hat if they don't."

Captain Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl. God, that sounded good.

"The what?"

He must have said that part out loud. Jack turned to Bootstrap, his smile widening. "The Black Pearl. It's her new name."

Bootstrap paused, turning the name over in his mind, then he too smiled. "I like it. Good name for a pirate ship. So, _Captain_, what are your plans now?"

Jack straightened and settled his hat a little more firmly on his head, then took the wheel, feeling the ship respond instantly to his touch. "Now," he said firmly, "we sail for Tortuga and take on more crew. After that…" He touched the compass still dangling safely from his belt, reassuring himself that it was still there.

"After that," he continued, "what do you say to a visit to Isla de Muerta?"

The pirates had indeed voted him captain, Jack remembered with a smile, even though there had been some question about his youth. He was only twenty-four at the time, after all. But he had saved them from certain death, and had managed to steal the Pearl out from under the nose of the Navy. Better yet, he had promised them gold. The treasures of Isla de Muerta would be enough to make them all rich men and now that he had his own ship, the time was finally right to fulfill the compass' promise.

Of course, it had all gone horribly wrong. The memories came quicker now, flickering through Jack's mind. Tortuga. Signing on more crew. His monumental mistake in hiring on Barbossa. Giving the bearings to Barbossa three days into the sail. And that night…the mutiny.

It was hardly surprising, really. When had anything ever gone right for him? Even now, mere hours after regaining the Black Pearl and escaping from Norrington, here he was, worse off than before. Jack sighed and stared gloomily at the bilge water that was now nearly at the top of his boots. Maybe he should just accept the fact that he was doomed to fail, that he was never meant to have the Black Pearl…

Like hell.

He had escaped certain death before and he would do it again.

Somehow.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII. THE BLOODY CUTLASS 

This would make number thirteen Jack mused, conducting a mental tally. The thirteenth time he'd found himself facing death. Superstition had it that thirteen was lucky for some, but Jack was not so sure his luck would hold out. Harry was an unforgiving sort of bloke. And a terrible pirate. Jack laid the blame for his first incarceration for piracy squarely at Covenant's door.

Jack's gaze lingered on the puckered skin on his arm where the East India Company had branded him all those years ago. The pale P stood out against his sun-darkened skin. Yes, Harry had a lot to answer for. Still recovering from the aftermath of their fight, Jack had lost his focus for a while – and ended up in trouble. But he wouldn't think about his failures right now; piracy had been good to him on the whole.

Of course if the Mary Ellen hadn't gone down when and where she did, and if Captain Phillips hadn't been such a prat as to try to take on a well-armed pirate ship with his little trader, Jack might never have taken up the life. Not that he regretted it for one moment. He hadn't realised how restricted his life on the Mary Ellen had been until he'd known the freedom that the Bloody Cutlass provided. A tight run ship, true, but such rewards!

The Revenge lurched under him again as the rapidly increasing storm turned the sea into a maelstrom, reminding him again of the first time he'd almost died.

Nothing had gone right for the Mary Ellen since they'd lost Captain Penhallow. The fever that took his life had swept through the ship like wildfire, but the Captain had been the only one to succumb. Then there had been the rot found in the mainmast. Some nasty beetle that had snuck on board in Madagascar had taken a liking to the fine English wood. No one felt at ease anymore on the once-friendly ship. It was as if they carried the taint of a curse on board. And now the storm. They'd weathered storms before, but nothing like the one now threatening to break the Mary Ellen in two.

The bosun's voice bellowed from below, but Jack couldn't hear him over the pounding rain and gusting winds. He was perched precariously above the sail, working frantically to furl it, but the storm had other ideas, pulling the soaking canvas through his fingers and burning his work-hardened palms as it scored his flesh. Despair was foreign to Jack's nature but this battle with Mother Nature was dragging at his self-confidence until he felt almost crushed beneath it. Then, in a sudden lull, he heard the bosun's orders. Cut the lines! His knife was out in a flash and he sawed for all he was worth, feeling the tension in the rope snap under him, the sail tearing from the mast to be blown far astern. Even as he watched it disappear into the watery depths, the last of the long boats was torn from its moorings and sent flying into the raging sea. With no sails, no boats and no hope, Jack could almost feel the cold hand of death gripping his neck.

With the rain lashing against his face, Jack was virtually blinded as he made his way back down to the deck. The Mary Ellen bucked and tossed, fighting her own battle with the sea even as her crew held on for dear life. In the end, all their hard work was for nothing as the mainmast took a direct hit from a massive bolt of lightning, sending it crashing to the deck and scattering the crew in all directions. The ship heeled over, her side almost level with the sea, and Jack watched in horror as two of the crew were flung overboard. There was no way to save them, no way to turn the ship and go back. Another wave crashed over the deck and Jack tightened his grip on the rail, trying to ride out the tempest.

The storm lasted well into the night. One by one the crew of the Mary Ellen lost hope - and their lifelines - as the gale tore them from the deck until only a handful remained.

Jack's soaked body shivered in the night air, fear rather than the cold setting his flesh crawling. It wasn't meant to be this way. He was only nineteen. He had his entire life ahead of him. And yes, he might have seen something of the world, but there was so much more still to be experienced. He wanted to live well into his old age, with tales told about him that would amaze his friends. Admittedly there hadn't been much opportunity for that on the Mary Ellen, but they were close to the spice capitals now, and Jack had intended to transfer to another ship as soon as they docked. He swallowed. This wild night was bringing up way too many memories to let his mind rest for even a moment and he desperately wanted to drink himself into oblivion and blot out the terror that was attacking him from within and without. Storms always guaranteed him a sleepless night, for they fuelled his nightmares. Every rumble of thunder reminded him of that wild night on the Cornish coast and the beginning of his incredible journey. During the day he could ignore the feelings that tightened his gut and made his head ache, but at night he would find himself a dark corner and drink himself oblivious. He didn't enjoy being prey to his emotions.

The gale finally blew itself out shortly before dawn and Jack waited for the first rays of the sun to lighten the darkness. Exhausted and amazed to find themselves still alive, the remaining crew of the Mary Ellen surveyed the damage in the light of a new day. Jack had been sent below decks to see what damage had occurred below the water line, for the ship was listing badly and every man on board could feel her struggles.

Water was seeping in rapidly from broken seams to both port and starboard: it was more than they could cope with, more than running repairs would even touch.

The Mary Ellen had fought so hard during the night, being swept further and further away from land and any help that might have come their way. But it seemed that she had given up at last, and nothing her crew could do was going to save her.

While he was below Jack had grabbed the last of the rum, bringing the bottles on deck for all to share. If he were going to die, then he was damned if he'd face it sober. He ransacked the crew quarters to find his lucky hat. It was still there, waterlogged but intact, and he placed it carefully on his head. If he ever lost this… Stupid thought, there was no way they would come out of this, even with his good luck charm.

Three bottles later.

"Sails! Lads, look, sails!" a hoarse voice croaked.

Everyone's head came up at the cry. Rushing to the rail, Jack felt his head pounding with a sudden rush of exhilaration… or it might have been the rum. Coming straight at them was the welcome sight of white sails and the British ensign flying at the mast.

Not a big ship by any means - a cutter of some sort, probably carrying spices as the Mary Ellen would have done, but a welcome sight none the less. A cheer went up among the crew, Jack giving voice to his relief with a whoop of joy…and then he toppled over the side. Thankfully the Mary Ellen was at a dead stop in the water now and it took only a moment for the laughing crewmen to drag a soggy Jack - and his hat - from the water. But he didn't care about their laughter - he was alive!

From the rail of the Gallant, Jack, hat in hand, along with his crewmates watched the Mary Ellen go down beneath the waves, their previous joy lost in the sombre mood that now suffused them all. She had been a joy to sail on, a real lady. No temper. No quirks. She'd seen them halfway across the world and back again with no problems but even she couldn't defy the storm that had taken her life. As her stern disappeared under the waves, leaving just a ripple on the ocean's surface, Jack replaced his hat and wondered what his life would be like now. In some respects this calamity could be setting his feet on a path more to his liking – or not. Whatever happened, he was going to miss the Mary Ellen.

Jack was not so sure about the ship now under his feet - or her Captain for that matter. Phillips was a youngish man, maybe only in his late twenties, and Jack had a fairly good idea as to how he'd obtained his post. It certainly wasn't for his seamanship; the man didn't know his topsail from his anchor, and the crew eyed him with barely concealed derision at every order he gave, taking their cue instead from the bosun, a grizzled man who seemed to hold all their respect.

Jack and the other survivors were put to work helping to repair the Gallant, for she too had encountered the storm, but had fared considerably better. Her holds were packed with rich silks and boxes of spices that suffused the air and clogged the lungs every time he had to go below. For a ship in these waters the Gallant was barely armed; just ten cannon to protect a cargo that was worth… well Jack didn't know exactly how much, but it would be enough to make his life considerably easier if it belonged to him. There were days when he wondered if the sailor's life was all it was cracked up to be. The pay was…well…not enough, the hours were too long, and if he had to put up with the snotty-nosed tyke who ran this ship for very long, he thought he just might deck him. Of course then he would be…disciplined. He had already felt Penhallow's displeasure on more than one occasion. Mind you, the man had always given him fair warning.

It was only three days later that they encountered another ship, and it was on that day that Jack's life altered irrevocably.

It was early morning and a mist, thick and grey, hung over the sea, dulling his senses and making Jack feel as though he had been cut off from the rest of the world. Barely a breath of wind filled the sails of the Gallant; they were, to all intents and purposes, dead in the water.

From out of the mist Jack thought he saw the outline of a ship sailing parallel to their course. "Bosun. Sails," he said softly. You never knew who might be sailing these waters, and sound travelled like the very devil over water.

The captain joined them at the rail, spyglass to his eye, trying to see what colours she flew. He snapped it closed with a satisfied smirk. "It's the Bloody Cutlass, no less. Salter, ready the cannon. We'll take her prisoner."

The bosun's reply was not fit for tender ears to hear. The captain was aggrieved, to put it mildly.

"The cannon, bosun. Now!" His voice blasted out across the waves.

"You heard him, lad. Get yourself below, help the gunners… and pray. There's no way short of a miracle we'll best that bloody ship."

Insatiable curiosity filled Jack's eyes as he looked out to where the mists were parting, giving him a glimpse of a large sloop that appeared to be changing course and heading their way.

"The Bloody Cutlass has been terrorising these waters these last three year now," Salter continued. "Forty cannon she's got to our ten, and a crew of as bloodthirsty pirates as you wouldn't want to miss. They say they drowns every last one of their victims." The older man crossed himself before taking off to see to his captain's orders.

'If they drown every last one, then who was it told the tale?' Jack mused, sparing another glance at the vessel, which it seemed had now definitely spotted them, and had turned to fight. From all along her side, gun ports opened to reveal the gaping maws of her cannon.

Jack gulped then ran down to the gunner's stations. They'd not had to use the Mary Ellen's guns on the runs they had made so far, something for which he had been inordinately grateful. Now here he was, facing imminent death for the second time in a week … it seemed someone up there didn't like him.

Chaos ruled below the hatches. Jack, making his way to the chief gunner, heard voices cursing and praying in the same breath. Every man knew their captain was making a fatal mistake, especially when they realised who it was off their port side.

"Bloody fool that Phillips!" O'Dell cursed, spitting his disgust onto the planks under his feet. "See us all dead he will. Taking on pirates like he thinks he's in the damn British Navy. Bounty on Telford's head, _that's_ what it is. Man thinks he can cash in and we'll not see a penny of it, mind. Not that we stand a chance lad," he said, turning his attention to Jack.

For a brief moment patriotism raised its ugly head in Jack's young breast, then common sense took over. He had ever been practical.

"Don't have to fight, now do we?" Jack said slowly, eyeing the older man. "I mean, there's only one captain, who I think we all agree is an idiot of the first water?"

Aware that O'Dell was not the only man listening to him, Jack turned to include the other seamen in his discourse. "How much does Phillips pay you men? Is it worth what will happen when that pirate ship takes the Gallant?"

Grumbling came from every throat and Jack guessed the answer was no. He'd always had an eye to the main chance - not that he thought he could profit from this encounter but if he could come out of it alive he would have done well. "Why not close the gun ports; show the Bloody Cutlass we won't fight?"

A voice from the back grumbled. "She'll blow us out of the water!"

"What profit would that have for her? They're pirates, savvy? Do you really think they'll pass up on this cargo? We could maybe come to some accord with them. We can't be any worse off than firing on that." He pointed out the open port to where the pirate ship had now crept up to just a ship's length away.

From above them, the gunners could hear Captain Phillips screaming for cannon and being answered by a shot from the Bloody Cutlass that tore through the mainsail.

"What say you then?" Jack eyed them one by one.

It was O'Dell who answered. "The lad be right. Close the ports. Phillips can come down here himself if'n he wants to fire these little toys."

O'Dell headed quickly up the stairs. Jack and the others hesitated a moment then followed the gunner up to the main deck where their erstwhile captain was standing toe to toe with O'Dell. From his empurpled face, Jack guessed he didn't like the sudden mutiny that was occurring. Jack didn't see himself as a mutineer - after all Phillips wasn't 'his' captain, he'd signed no articles and he was just working his way back to the nearest port. So no, it was the Gallant's crew that were mutinying, Jack was only the catalyst. Besides, the crew of the Gallant was just doing the sensible thing.

The pirate ship was close enough now that they could send over the grappling hooks. Some among the trader's crew had taken fright and pulled out pistols and knives – battle was inevitable.

The air was full of sounds, pirates yelling curses as they swung across from the Bloody Cutlass, the returning cries of the Gallant's crew. Jack had no weapons, no knife or pistol and no sword – not that he would know how to use a sword in any event. He looked around for anything that might do to defend himself with; a piece of wood would be heaven-sent right now. Nothing. And then he heard the heavy sounds of booted feet coming right at him…and looked up into the grinning face of one of the ugliest men he'd ever come across.

Jack danced out of the way of the first knife thrust sent slashing toward him, stepping quickly backwards, hands outstretched in an appeasing gesture. "No need for that mate. I'm not armed, look!" He waved his hands in the air showing the pirate that he held no weapon.

His attacker grinned at him, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth. "Good!" he barked, taking another step forward, knife aimed for Jack's unprotected body.

Jack took a hasty step back, tripped on the coil of rope behind him, and fell hard, the pirate stepping in for another swing at him. 'Done for,' Jack thought as he eyed the man. Then his hand brushed against the rope that tied off the main topgallant and a glimmer of an idea rushed through his brain. He scuttled back, rope in hand, then launched himself upward, climbing as quickly as he could. From below him, the pirate threw his knife, missing Jack by inches, the blade embedding itself in the mast, inches from his face. Jack made the mistake of looking back, only to see the pirate grab the end of the rope and pull with all his might, dislodging Jack from his precarious position - to plummet to the deck below.

A booted foot pushed at Jack's thigh, dragging him back to awareness. His head thumped worse than after a two-day binge and he opened his eyes to find the business end of a musket hovering over his face. He put his hand out and gently eased it to one side. "No need for that mate," he said, squinting up into the sun's glare. Above him all he could make out was the shape of a large man looming over him - then he heard the voice.

"Young Jack? By all that's… it is you lad, isn't it? I'd know that scar anywhere!"

Jack recognised the voice in an instant. It flashed him back all those years ago, on a gale-torn beach on the Cornish coast. "William?"

"Bootstrap to you lad, if you please. On your feet now." A large hand waved in front of his face and Jack took it with relief, letting his childhood friend heave him from the deck.

"Young Jack. Well, who'd have thought it."

"That's just Jack to you, Bootstrap. I'm not so young, you know."

"Aye, you must be all of fifteen by now!"

Jack cursed his youthful looks yet again. "Nineteen, Bootstrap, nineteen and well you know it."

His friend grinned back at him with all the youthful devilry that had defined him so many years ago, and laughed.

The Cutlass' crew made quick work of taking the Gallant. Phillips, after much blustering and cursing his crew, finally surrendered his ship and its contents to Captain Telford with bad grace and some loss of life. The survivors were lined up along the rail, backs to the sea, facing Telford and his crew.

"You have a choice men," Telford began, locking his gaze with each man one by one. "The Gallant is now mine, and everything aboard her. You can join my crew and help sail her into port, _and_ have a fair share of the booty, or you can take your chances in a long boat. You're maybe three days off the coast if you row hard."

A chuckle went through the Cutlass' crew, a sound intended to set teeth on edge and nerves to fraying.

"They'll take the long boat with me!" Captain Phillips announced. There was a grumble among the men ranged alongside him.

Telford ran an experienced eye down the line. "Speak for you all does he?"

"Not me, he don't." Jack stepped forward, disassociating himself from the Gallant's captain.

"Nor I," O'Dell stepped up beside him.

In a matter of moments, Phillips stood alone, facing the pirate captain. His pride had brought him to this, had seen good men die needlessly.

"Launch the long boat," Telford ordered then ushered the fuming Phillips to the side. "Your ship awaits you, Captain."

Bootstraps hand grasped his. "Welcome to the Bloody Cutlass, lad."

Jack raised his brow. "Bloody Cutlass?"

"The captain's a literal sort of man," William replied, grinning.

From that moment on, Jack's life changed irrevocably. Having Bootstrap's guidance was a boon, and Jack soon proved himself ideally suited to the life of a pirate. His scruples were few, though he had his own moral code. Bootstrap once explained the essence of a pirate's life as 'take what you can!'

Jack thought for a moment before replying. "And give nothing back?"

"Aye, Jack. Got it in one."

Jack watched as the bilge lantern's flame guttered briefly before it steadied again.

Thirteen was not going to be lucky for him it seemed; even the lantern wanted to add to his discomfort. Jack removed his hat and let his fingers caress the battered brim - the charm that had seen him through fire and flood, blood and tears, was quite probably going to see the last of John White in the early morning. Jack hoped they'd toss the hat over the side with his body. He didn't relish the thought of anyone taking it as a trophy. They had seen too much together.

Jack shook his head sharply. Was he _really_ going to let Harry Covenant - of all people - get the better of Captain Jack Sparrow?

Something inside him rebelled. He would find a way out of this and finally end this feud with Covenant.

After all, he still had his hat.


	9. Chapter 9

**IX. GHOST STORIES**

Thunder echoed through the bilge and the Revenge lurched again, nearly sending Jack back into the water that continued to rise. It was over the tops of his boots now. All in all, Jack was thoroughly miserable. He was soaking wet, with sore ribs and sore head. Besides which, he stank. Yes, he had definitely had better days. Dawn was close now – Jack could almost feel it, could sense the darkness beginning to give way to the day. He didn't have much time.

There was a scraping noise above him and Jack looked up, his heart tripping into high speed. Cautiously he splashed his way toward the ladder, reeling a little as the ship plunged and dipped beneath him. Then the hatch opened and a tanned face gazed down at him.

"So, Jack Sparrow." The voice was familiar, as was the cunning expression. "Never thought to see you again, even though old Harry's been searching for a while now. Ever since he got back on his feet, as it were." The pirate's unsympathetic chuckle sent a shiver down Jack's spine.

It was Bridges. One-time mate on Jack's own Victory - and among the first to attack Jack when the fighting had begun on board the Fearless…even though Bridges had supposedly owed him some sort of loyalty. Jack sighed wearily. What was it about him that kept making his crew betray him? Were there no loyal men left in the Caribbean? But then his momentary doubt faded. There _were_ loyal people – and they were safe back on board the Pearl.

"That's _Captain _Jack Sparrow to you, Bridges," Jack said evenly.

Bridges rubbed his chin. "Strikes me 'Captain' is a bit of an overstatement. Bilge rat seems more apt right now."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "You and the others did well enough out of me at the time. Who found the Spaniard and her great fortune then?"

"Never got a chance to spend it, did we? Most of the boxes went up in flames. Had to be kicked overboard."

"Yeah, well Harry never was much of a pirate, was he? He should have stowed it safe." Jack said wearily.

Bridges contemplated Jack for a long moment, then spoke again, a sly note entering his voice: "So tell me, _Captain_ – are the rumours true about the gold you found on Isla de Muerta?"

Jack heard the greed in the man's voice and felt a familiar tingle of anticipation shiver through his body. This was it. The chance he had been waiting for. Jack folded his arms, ignoring the water sloshing around his knees.

"Aye, it's true enough," he said slowly. "Barbossa has no need of it now, him being _un_-undead and all. That treasure is just sitting there." Jack dropped his voice, painting an image with his words. "Gold, silk, jewels. A whole cavern full, just lying there. Doubloons piled so high they're sliding into the water. Ten years worth of spoils – can you picture it?"

It was evident that Bridges could. The man was practically salivating at the thought.

Jack continued, allowing a note of sorrow to enter his voice. "Be a shame to let all that go to waste. That island – well, there's not many know where it is. Barbossa's dead and his crew's hanged by now. As for those with me on my last venture to Isla de Muerta…well, none knew the bearings but me." Actually, there was also the Navy Lieutenant – Gillette was his name – that Norrington had forced him to give the bearings to, but Jack carefully didn't mention that.

'Come on, little fish,' he thought, trying to reel the man in. One ally. One chance. That was all he needed. Well, that and a loaded pistol maybe…

Jack dropped his hands and sighed dramatically. "All that gold - a man could retire ten times over. Nothing you couldn't afford. Even buy your own island, if you wanted."

Bridges swallowed, then spoke slowly: "What say you – Captain - to an accord between us? Some of the lads are not so keen on old Harry's ways. There's no profit in it for us. Day in, day out, he's been scouring the seas, lookin' for you, Jack Sparrow. Passing up real beauties, and avoiding port for months on end. So what say you to this? You give me the bearings to the treasure, and I'll keep you out of Harry's noose."

Jack felt the start of a smile pulling at his lips. "Or how 'bout this instead – you get rid of Harry and then I pilot the Revenge to the treasure."

Bridges hesitated.

"It's the only way, mate," Jack said firmly. "Otherwise the secret dies with me. Savvy?"

"We take eighty percent, and drop you off wherever we want."

"Fifty, and you'll take me to Tortuga."

"Sixty-five and it'll be Shandling Bay."

"Done! Shake on it." Jack held up his hand, hoping the pirate would be stupid enough to take it. Not that Jack was quite sure what he'd do once he got out of the bilge, but it had to help his chances...especially if he could get his hands on Bridges gun.

"Not on your life. D'ye think I'm that stupid?"

Jack's silence was eloquent.

Another long moment passed, then Bridges nodded. "All right. I'll put it to the others. Stay there."

"And just where would I be going, mate?"

But the hatch had already clanged shut and Jack was alone in the gloom once again. Nevertheless, he found his spirits lifting for the first time since his capture. He turned, and his fingers brushed the compass still hanging on his belt. Idly Jack flipped it open. There was just enough lantern light remaining for him to make out its needle, still spinning around wildly. He stared at it for a long moment then shut the compass with a snap. It would be ironic if it saved his life now - given that it had nearly got him killed, all those years ago.

It was a beautiful evening, Jack decided. The day had been extremely hot, even by Caribbean standards, but as the sun was lowering in the sky the temperature had dropped to bearable levels. He raised his face to the gentle breeze that plucked at his open shirt, and took a moment to relish its caress against his skin.

The crew of the Bloody Cutlass had gathered on the main deck to eat their meal and now sat around alternately talking and listening to Griffin's guitar, singing along with the more boisterous ditties. Captain Telford joined them, garnering a cheer as he broke out the rum rations.

"Tell us a story, young Jack," he said. "Tell us a story from home. You're always full of wild tales."

Telford's words set the crew laughing, and Jack had grinned at his compatriots, not minding their mirth. At twenty-two he'd become the unofficial story-teller onboard the ship: his imagination just that much livelier than his fellow crew men.

It was not the sort of night for horror stories, though he knew many thanks to his Dad's love of scaring his son with his bedtime tales. Perhaps a tale about a ghostly ship would be more in keeping with his light-hearted mood.

"Listen up then, while I tell you what could happen to your sorry souls." Jack leaned forward slightly, drawing his audience in.

"Fairfield village always kept itself to itself," he began. "A haven for the ghosts of their ancestors. Friendly they were - both living and the dead. Never any trouble on either side…until the night a terrible storm brought a pirate ship to Fairfield."

Jack's eyes swept around his crewmates, noting their attention was firmly fixed on him, and revelling just a little at being the centre of attention.

"Fifty miles inland it came. Landed right in the landlord of the Fox and Grapes' field – just sat there with its black hull crushing his turnips."

The image Jack had conjured set the crew to chuckling once again.

"Seemingly, the ship was not quite ghost, yet not quite real either, if you get my meaning. Somewhere betwixt and between, as it were. You could touch it, but you knew it wasn't real. So, the Captain of this ship seemed a well-to-do kind of man, didn't give any trouble to the landlord and paid handsomely for the damage his ship had caused, but..." Jack paused for a moment, his eyes darting once to Bootstrap, and catching the barely suppressed grin. The boys had grown up hearing this tale.

"But what? Get on with it lad," came Telford's voice from the now gathering gloom.

"…but that was when the trouble started. Ghosts started to come home the worse for wear, causing all sorts of ruckus in their old haunts. Old ghosts, who'd ever been quiet, were now carousing in the village square. Young ghostly lads abandoned their ghostly ladies for the rum being offered by the pirate captain."

There was more hilarity and Telford threatened to cut off their supplies. It took a moment for Jack to regain their attention.

"Ah, but you should be warned lads - the rum, it wasn't given for free, for come the next big storm the pirate ship was blown back to wherever she had come from, and took most of the Fairfield ghosts with it. Seemingly the captain had needed a new crew and he took what he wanted…"

"… and gave nothing back?" Bootstrap interrupted.

"Aye. A true pirate," Jack said smugly.

Barbossa's gritty voice cut through the laughter, catching everyone's attention. "I have a tale for you. Not as light-hearted as Jack's, but a cautionary tale if it is to be believed."

A round of, 'tell us', give us your story', 'does it involve gold?' rang around the deck.

"Aye, it involves gold. And a curse, if the tale is true." Barbossa had their attention now and he wove for them the tale of Cortez' gold, of the curse put on it by the Aztecs, and brought to life the image of the damned men who had taken the pieces and suffered for all their lives.

Suddenly Barbossa laughed. "A tale to frighten dread pirates with!"

"Where be the gold now then?" O'Dell asked. A question that had been on every man's mind, for Barbossa had told them just how much gold there had been.

The older man's eyes lifted to the horizon. "Somewhere out there. It's said only those 'as has been to the Isla de Muerta can find it again…."

He chuckled at his rapt faces all around him.

"No-one's found the treasure, lads. It's just a tale. I doubt it even exists, nor the curse."

The story had fired Jack's imagination to great heights. In his mind he could almost see the piles of gold and jewels. The huge box filled to overflowing with Aztec gold. Was it possible that such a treasure really existed and no one was brave enough to take it?

There had been many tales told about the area they now sailed in. Jack gave little credence to them. After all, who had heard of ships vanishing without trace for no reason? Someone had sunk them, or a storm had taken them to the depths. He'd been close enough to drowning on the Mary Ellen for it to ring true.

Still, there was something vaguely unsettling in the air, in the way the Bloody Cutlass moved under his feet, as though the ship herself were uncomfortable in these waters.

From the quarterdeck the helmsman swore and shook the ship's compass hard. "Bloody thing won't stay true. Look at it - first this way and then that. How's a man supposed to keep us steady with this!"

On his belt, Jack had hung his latest good luck charm - a compass taken from the little Spanish ship they had raided just a week before. It didn't work, but that hadn't mattered. He'd liked the design…and besides, there had been…well, he'd never admit it to a living soul, but there was something vaguely otherworldly about it. A…feeling, had gone through him when he'd picked it up, a faint tingle that had caused the palm of his hand to itch. And so he had kept it, not really questioning why, and cheerfully enduring the occasional joke about it from the crew. It was important. Jack wasn't sure how or why he knew that, but he did. He glanced down at it now, flipping it open with one hand. The needle was steady as a rock, but he knew from experience it wouldn't be pointing north. Somewhere in its history the compass had been too badly damaged to ever function properly.

"Sails!" The lookout pointed to the starboard side, and there, sailing all unaware towards them, was another dainty Spanish ship for the taking. The wind was in the Cutlass' favour, edging her closer to the Spaniard minute by minute. Jack took his place at the rail, waiting for the fight to begin, excitement coursing through him.

Perhaps she hadn't been quite so unaware for from the Spaniard came the boom of cannon fire, plumes of smoke drifting into the sunlit sky. Her shot fell short of the Cutlass, and the men lining her rail jeered at the pitiful attempt.

The gap was closing quickly. Jack could make out her name now – the Fuego.

O'Dell and his team were up in the rigging, tending the sails, giving the pirate ship as much advantage as they could. Another cannon shot missed the Cutlass, though by a smaller margin now and Jack could feel the tension building within him.

From the Cutlass' starboard guns came a volley of fire, the pirate ship sending death across the waves and taking the Spaniard almost at the water line, her reach greater than that of her prey. Another volley, then another, and the Spaniard began to list heavily, trying to tack away from her pursuers. Telford was not one to let a prize slip his grasp and it was only minutes more before the Cutlass was within boarding distance. Jack grabbed a line and prepared to swing aboard, pistol tucked securely through his belt, a dagger between his teeth, and his sword ready for use at his side. Barbossa had spent hour upon hour teaching him how to use the sword, until the men were on par with each other, but Jack had yet to use the weapon in a real fight.

Jack landed heavily, dropping from the rope to the Fuego's deck. Smoke from the cannon drifted across Jack's face, obscuring his vision. He ducked low, keeping his body out of reach of any stray sword sweep.

All around him the cries of friend and foe alike as the battle was joined. Taking the pistol from his belt, Jack edged forward, his dagger in his other hand.

From out of the mist a figure loomed over him. Jack stood quickly and struck out with the dagger, catching his man across his sword arm, slicing through ligaments, and the weapon fell with a clatter to the deck. Reversing his pistol, Jack laid a solid blow to the man's head and watched him fall. "Sorry, mate," he murmured, stepping over the fallen man.

From his left, another Spaniard came hurling by, sword flashing brightly as he fought with Bootstrap. Jack jumped back nimbly until they had passed and then plunged onward. Another of the Spanish crew had cornered O'Dell, and Jack once again brought his pistol into play, slamming the butt against the vulnerable head. Across the fallen man, O'Dell and Jack grinned briefly at one another, then O'Dell's eyes shifted behind Jack.

"Behind you, lad!" the pirate shouted.

Spinning about, Jack found himself at the wrong end of a gleaming sword and a stream of Spanish curses.

"Now, you really don't want to do that," Jack said carefully, freezing in place.

The Spaniard merely growled and lunged at Jack, who threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding a fallen body behind him. The Spaniard, a tall burly man gave him no breathing space, however. He was on Jack almost immediately, his sword flashing toward the pirate's throat. Jack continued to retreat across the heaving deck, dodging fighting men and downed bodies, while trying desperately to draw his sword. He lost his pistol in the process – it was knocked out of his hand when another Spaniard crashed into him, temporarily separating Jack from his pursuer. Jack shook himself free, finally managed to free his sword…and he turned.

The two weapons met in a shower of sparks. The impact sent a shudder up Jack's arm and for an instant, doubt flickered through him. The Spaniard was good. Too good? And then the moment was past and there was only the play and counterplay of the two blades.

Barbossa had once told Jack he was a natural - his athletic build and quick reflexes were ideally suited to swordplay. He was agile and had an almost uncanny ability to anticipate his opponent's next move.

Apparently Barbossa had been right.

In a strange way Jack was almost beginning to enjoy himself. Exhilaration and excitement combined with the sudden certainty that he couldn't be beaten, sent his emotions soaring and lending wings to his sword hand. He dodged a sideways slice from the Spaniard, then in one smooth move Jack pivoted beneath the man's guard…and sank his blade deep into his chest.

Everything seemed to come to a halt, sounds fading around Jack as the Spaniard's eyes opened wider in surprise. He stood, unmoving on the end of Jack's sword for what seemed like an eternity, and then he slowly began to fall backwards. There was a tug on Jack's sword as it caught on something – a rib perhaps? – and it was only the habit of long hours of practice that kept Jack's fingers tight around the hilt. And then it was sliding free, and the Spaniard crashed to the deck, a dark red stain growing on the front of his uniform.

There was so much blood.

And suddenly Jack wasn't enjoying himself anymore.

Ignoring the battle that continued around him, Jack sank to his knees beside the dying man. He reached his hand out towards the Spaniard, who was futilely trying to staunch the flow of blood, then Jack pulled back. There was nothing he could do. The man was dying. And Jack had killed him. Shaken, he leaned forward a little…and on his belt, the compass swung forward, its catch giving way. It fell open, the movement catching the gaze of the Spaniard. His eyes, already beginning to lose their focus, looked down at the compass – and an expression of blind terror came over him. He looked back up at Jack, agitated words tumbling raggedly from his mouth. Jack knew little Spanish, but he thought he caught a feeble plea to God for protection, and then those three pivotal words – 'Isla de Muerta'.

Isla de Muerta.

Jack shifted his weight as he stood at the wheel of the Cutlass, standing the late watch. At some point during the night he had made his peace with what he had done. He had killed a man. But it could just as easily be him lying dead back there on the Spanish ship. He had chosen this lifestyle. It hadn't been forced upon him. He had to accept that he might…no, _would_…be forced to kill again. Tomorrow, or the day after, or the one after that… At some point he would find himself in a similar situation, where it would come down to his life or another's. And, in those long hours of darkness as the Cutlass had cut through the waters of the Caribbean, Jack had come to a decision. If he had to kill, he would – but he would also look for alternatives and keep his options open whenever he could. The other men on the Bloody Cutlass might be able to kill without a qualm…but Jack wasn't like them. And, he had realised, he didn't have to be. He would be his own sort of pirate, and if anyone didn't like it…well, it was a big ocean. There was room for all sorts out here.

His mind settled now, or as settled as it could be, Jack's thoughts returned to the second matter that had been bothering him - the Spaniard, and his expression of complete and utter terror when the compass had fallen open.

Isla de Muerta.

It was just a legend. Nothing but a ghost story. It couldn't be true…could it? Unconsciously Jack fingered the compass at his belt, tracing the pattern on it lightly. What if it _were_ true? And what if this compass were somehow linked to the legend? The ship Jack had lifted it from had been sailing from Veracruz, according to the papers in the Captain's cabin. A tenuous link to the Aztecs, but a link nonetheless.

So how to find out more? Jack stared blindly into the darkness, his mind sifting through the possibilities. He could ask Barbossa what else he knew about the legend – but carefully, mind you. Jack had already decided he would not tell anyone else about the compass. If he were wrong about it, his fellow pirates' ribbing would be merciless, and it would be nigh impossible to live it down. If he were right though… Once more the tantalizing image of a vast and endless treasure glinted before his eyes. No, he would tell no one.

And Barbossa's tale of a curse? Jack let out a snort. There was no such thing as curses.

Jack sighed and leaned his head back against the bilge wall. He knew better now, of course. His hand tightened around the compass. If it hadn't been for this thing, he thought bitterly, he never would have gone after the Aztec gold, never would have been marooned, never would have lost the Pearl…

Except…he probably still would have taken on Barbossa and the other mutineers, that day in Tortuga. Barbossa would still have betrayed him and stolen his ship. Nothing would have changed. Or maybe everything would have – who could tell?

It had taken Jack a long time to find out if his suspicions about the compass were correct – nearly two years of asking cautious questions at various ports, of tracing the history of the Fuego and her crew - until finally he had been… not sure, but certain enough to try for the treasure. All he had needed was a good ship and crew.

Well, one out of two wasn't bad.

And now – now he was quite possibly the only man who still knew the location of the treasure – he doubted Lieutenant Gillette would remember the way - and he couldn't do a bloody thing about it. Harry Covenant certainly had a lot to answer for.

At that moment, the lantern went out.


	10. Chapter 10

**X:SCARS**

Jack didn't think he'd ever get dry again. His clothes still clung to him uncomfortably and the water was still rising toward worrying levels. And with the damp had come an old ache, one that had not bothered him for years now. His hand slipped through the opening of his shirt, fingers seeking out the twin scars that bore mute testament to a time he would much rather forget.

Elizabeth had asked him if all the tales were true and he had sought to shock her by baring the worst of his scars. She had looked solemn instead of screaming, as any delicate lady should have done. Perhaps he should have shown the one that decorated his buttock where Sally had stuck him with a carving knife for trying to leave without paying? Now that would have shocked her, he grinned. Or maybe not, for Elizabeth was something special. The whelp was going to have his hands full with that one. Spirited, that's what she was, like AnaMaria. And they were the kind you wanted on your side. Men were dangerous, but women had more ways to hurt you.

He didn't hold with women being bad luck on board a ship. He'd known a few ladies who shared his love of the ocean, who valued the freedom it brought; no, his troubles with the ladies had always been on dry land, where no self-respecting pirate should stay too long. His shoulder twinged again, reminding him of the worst of his encounters with the _gentler _sex.

Jack had been stone cold sober when he made the mistake. Not a state he preferred, but it hadn't been by his choice. He always thought quicker with a little alcohol in his system. It kept his brain ticking over just nicely.

He'd just spent three nights in the local gaol for something he really couldn't remember doing. Didn't mean he hadn't, of course. Jack had it on good authority, that of the local magistrate, that he'd been drunk and disorderly in charge of a carriage that had been driven recklessly through the local market, causing damage to property. As Jack had never driven a carriage before there could be some justification for the arrest.

Jack pulled down the brim of his hat as he emerged into bright sunlight from the gloom of the jail. Sun sparkled on the water in the nearby harbour where boats nestled up to the quays. Very soon now he would have to find a new berth. There was little money left in his pocket and his Pearl was still out there somewhere, waiting for him to reclaim her.

He needed a drink, that was for sure. And he'd not yet visited Genny, something he did whenever he found himself here and alone. The woman was more friend than lover, and the years between them brought them ever closer. With Genny he could sit and talk out his hopes and fears and know his confidences would go no further. And if, occasionally, they would make love, it was a comfortable passion.

Sauntering down to the main part of town, Jack came to a sudden halt when a female voice called his name.

"Jack Sparrow?"

The voice was attractive, sultry, though not familiar. Slowly Jack turned, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Who wants to know?" he asked, a leer on his attractive features.

From a side alley sashayed a tall, well-proportioned woman, with flashing eyes and Hispanic features. Jack didn't recognise her, but that didn't mean they did not know one another. Jack hoped they did, for he found her lush charms a definite attraction after three days abstinence. At sea, the only mistress he required was the ocean, but on dry land, ah, then he loved the ladies, every last one of them.

Her brilliant smile was enough to send a certain thrill through his body. Oh yes, this could be a very satisfactory afternoon.

"My name is Isabella, and you are the notorious Jack Sparrow," the lilting voice declared.

"Notorious am I?" Jack replied, a swagger in his step as he approached the lovely woman. "Now just what am I notorious for, my pretty?"

"Buy me a drink, Jack, and I'll tell you."

Jack thought he was on familiar territory. The woman fancied him, not a doubt about it, and if it cost him a drink or two he'd not grumble. She looked to be a cosy armful, and he wanted a drink to ease the light-headed feeling three days without alcohol had engendered.

Of course, in his right mind, or with even just half a bottle of rum in his system, he'd have questioned such a lovely propositioning him. His usual 'entertainment' was street doxies who had a room for hire above a bar, unless he had the money and the inclination to visit a bordello. No, this young woman was too sophisticated, too clean to be touting for Jack Sparrow's business. But, as Jack was to later excuse his error, he really should not have been sober.

The bar was dark and smelly, but Jack didn't notice. His focus was on the barmaid and the first shot of rum. As they waited for the drinks to be brought over, Jack and Isabella became better acquainted.

Sitting back in his chair, Jack gasped a little from their encounter. The woman had a spirit about her that boded well for a more intimate association. So when she spoke, he found himself more than willing to listen.

"I hear you are a good man to have on your side in a tight corner. A quick thinker, able to get things done."

Her words should have given Jack pause; throughout his life he'd fallen from one scrape to the next, with only his well-honed sense of survival keeping him alive this long.

"So," Isabella continued, "I need your help. Are you aware that Captain Green took a Spanish galleon just last week?"

Jack nodded. The haul from that raid was said to be a fortune. Even allowing for exaggeration, a tenth of the reputed gold taken would easily fund his buying of a ship and crew, allowing him to pursue his Pearl and take his revenge on Barbossa and his traitorous crew.

"Aye," he replied. "And what do you have in mind? Green won't be letting that booty out of his sight, nor leave it where the likes of you and I can get our hands on it."

The slow smile that spread over his companion's face should have been a warning, but at that moment the barmaid brought the rum and his attention was easily distracted. Before he could raise the glass to his lips however, Isabella's hand alighted on his arm.

"But there is a way to get our hands on it, Jack. A very simple way, for Captain Green is not storing his haul on the ship, but here, in the town."

The glass of rum paused midway between the table and Jack's lips, its progress stayed by the light touch of Isabella's fingers and the words that now came tumbling out in a breathy whisper.

The sun was high in the sky, flooding the inn's upper room with harsh afternoon sunlight, as Jack sat on the edge of the bed letting the plan revolve in his mind once more. Behind him, Isabella lay sleeping; her naked form sprawled across the bedspread. Idly he let his fingers slide across her back, her skin soft against the roughness of his fingertips. He'd known her less than half a day but he felt connected to her. She was a woman as passionate about life as he, as energetic as he, and as conniving. He grinned in remembrance of their afternoon, both in and out of bed.

Her plan could work, he mused. Green was a good Captain, but if he had stored his last haul on land, and where Isabella had indicated, then he was asking to have it stolen. And Jack was just the man to oblige.

He pulled on his clothes reluctantly, half tempted to waken Isabella for one last time before he left to scout out Green's hidey hole. With a sigh, he rose, picked up his hat from the floor where it had landed some hours earlier, and after a last longing glance, he headed down the stairs and out into the heat of the day.

He was halfway to the docks when he came to an abrupt halt, standing stock still in the middle of the road, and causing more than one person to cast doubts on his parentage.

"Jack, lad," he murmured to himself, "Just what are you doing?" Isabella's lush form and exciting words had fuddled his brain it seemed. Jack was not a trusting soul by any means, but from the moment he'd met the sultry beauty he'd been letting his lower regions rule his head.

He was halfway to the harbour, and Green's supposed cache. Halfway to being spotted. Jack didn't doubt that he was a recognisable figure; not by his build or clothes, but for the ornamentation in his hair and the good looks his father had bequeathed him. Isabella had not told him who had pointed him out, but more than once he'd come to grief because of the beads in his black locks. He liked the look, he liked the fact that people knew Captain Jack Sparrow, but maybe now was not the time to be conspicuous.

A few steps away, a dark opening led into an alley behind the crowded shops and homes squeezed tightly together along the steep road to the harbour. In a moment Jack had vanished from the street and was hidden in the alley's murky depths. Removing his hat, he untied the bandana from his head, his hair falling forward, beads jangling. Spitting on the dirty cloth, he wiped the ratty material across his face, darkening his skin, erasing his noticeable features from the casual gaze. Then, with swift, compact moves, he pulled the beads up, wrapped the bandana back around his head, holding the telltale baubles out of sight.

The man strolling back out into the street did not look like Jack Sparrow. Gone were the beads that instantly made him known, gone too was the swagger that epitomised the pirate. In his stead, a slight, unremarkable man sauntered toward the harbour.

On the sea front a slight breeze was blowing in off the sea. Jack lifted his head, turning into the wind and tested the air. A storm was brewing somewhere out to sea, maybe a day or less away, though no sign of it was visible in the brilliant blue sky. Other sailors had obviously taken note of the invisible warning too. Men were in the rigging of nearly every boat anchored in the harbour. Canvas was being carefully furled, lines checked, loose items removed from decks. On shore the warning was going unheeded. Tropical storms always caught the landlubbers by surprise. Jack grinned, with luck the storm would be his friend and cover his steps when he decided to strike.

Isabella had told him that Green had his haul stored in a small warehouse at the far end of the harbour. Sited next to one of the most highly used storage facilities on the island, Green had made use of the security that was already in place to cover the merchant's property. It was a sound scheme; the pirate captain need only provide one or two of his own men to stand watch knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone would trouble his store. And that, Jack thought, would be his biggest mistake.

Green's ship had been in harbour for three days now, three days for his crew to go on shore and sample all the delights the town had to offer. And Jack knew what sort of a state they would be in. Those left to guard the booty would be anxious to join in the fun, and those sent to take their place would be the worse for the sampling.

For the next hour or so, Jack cruised the docks, chatting to sailors, getting a feel for who was in the market to sell, who was taking on crew and gradually making his way closer to Green's storage facility, noting the armed guards that patrolled the front of various buildings. At that end of the harbour the paving abruptly stopped, the roadway becoming nothing but a hardened pack of dirt that turned up the side of the last warehouse and headed into the hills behind the town. The poorer residents lived there, their ramshackle homes separated from the town by little save circumstance.

Isabella had indicated that a friend would help Jack transport what they could take up into the hills and to a safe place. Jack was not so certain that he wanted an unknown ally, though he'd acknowledged that he could not do the job on his own. Perhaps it would be worth his while to scout the taverns for familiar faces? Jack stopped that thought almost before it had begun; he had found it hard to trust anyone since he'd made the mistake of allowing Barbossa into his confidence.

Isabella wouldn't steer him wrong, of that he was sure. There was something about her that made his heart beat a little faster than it should, something that tugged at a deeply buried emotion that he did not want to recognise.

Taking a seat on the ground, and propping himself against the harbour wall, Jack spent the next few hours just watching the world go by, apparently half asleep. No one gave him a second glance as he seemingly nodded in the warmth of the evening. From the corner of his eye, Jack could see the door to Green's storeroom. He watched as a man left then returned some twenty minutes later with viands for two. About thirty minutes after that, a different man left to return soon after with bottles of what Jack was sure was rum. Jack grinned. Oh yes. He would have to approach the storeroom from that end of the harbour to avoid the guards, but if the storm was violent enough, Jack had no doubts that they would retire inside the buildings.

Come eight o'clock that evening, Jack was giving serious thought to returning to Isabella, finding food and drink and maybe taking her back to bed, when two large individuals made their way to the door, neither of them very steady on their feet. Rapping in a certain sequence, they hovered conspicuously in the evening light. A head poked out from the partly opened door, the men nodded, then entered. Two minutes later the two men Jack had watched that afternoon left and headed quickly towards the town's pleasures. He waited a few more minutes, saw the larger of the two pirates leave only to return with four bottles of drink tucked under his large arms. With a nod of satisfaction Jack turned to look out to sea, scanning the horizon for the storm clouds he so desperately needed. They did not disappoint. In the far distance thunderclouds were gathering, and he could feel the tang of rain in the air. Time to gather Isabella's friend and wait for the storm to hit. If Green could have seen Jack's sly grin at that moment, he would have recalled his whole crew to guard the haul he had expended so much effort to take.

Jack had never been jealous in his life; envious, yes, angry when someone beat him to a prize, certainly, but he was a fatalist. There was no reason to fret over something he could not change. And there was always another prize just around the corner. So, Jack was totally unprepared for the savage jolt of emotion that tore through his gut when he entered the inn's door and saw Isabella in close, and obviously cosy, proximity to a hulking young man of unsavoury mien.

With eyes sparkling dangerously, he made his way through the throng to the table where the two sat with heads close together.

"And who would this be?" Jack queried, his voice tight with mistrust.

Isabelle glanced up at him. Seeing the suspicion in his eyes, she patted the seat beside her, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

"Jack, this is my cousin, José. He's going to help us move the items." Her words were circumspect given the throng in the tavern's crowded bar.

"Ah," Jack drawled, not convinced. True the man had a Hispanic appearance, but there was no family resemblance that he could see. Jack would reserve judgement.. . and keep his pistol close to hand.

"A change of plan," Jack said.

Two pairs of dark brown eyes swung to his after sharing a quick glance between them, something Jack also noted. He'd be keeping his knife handy too; he trusted this new man as far as he could throw him, which wasn't far. Leaning close to Isabella, keeping his voice low he went on to explain what he had seen at the harbour, finishing with…"So, with the storm heading this way, and me knowing the code, I think we'll go with my plan, savvy?"

José answered softly, "I can get the mules, but not until tomorrow night. How much can we carry?"

Jack thought about what the hoard could possibly contain. Jewels certainly, easy to exchange, gold perhaps, and depending on whether it were coin or objects that could be a problem to dispose of. "Maybe four bags each, more if there is a lot of gems." Just the thought of having to leave behind any gold made his head ache. He didn't know why gold appealed over any other valuable, but he was drawn to it, his hand reaching to caress its golden sheen.

"Tonight then. You can meet me at the dock around three. By then the storm should be hitting and everyone will take cover," Jack said, looking straight at José. Again a glance was shared between Isabella and her 'cousin', the barest nod acknowledging something between them. Jack was not happy.

Five minutes later and his mood had changed considerably. Back upstairs in the room Isabella was renting, Jack found himself in her embrace and felt himself drowning in her lush ripeness. The blood from his brain had dived south and left him without conscious thought beyond his own pleasure. They had a few hours to wait until the meeting time and he intended to enjoy every one of them.

Rain spattering against the window was the first indication that Jack's predictions were accurate. The time was just gone two in the morning, and a wind was beginning to blow. Time to get dressed and purloin Captain Green's booty.

"I'm coming with you," Isabella said quietly, as she pulled the laces of her dress together. "Without the mules you'll need as many hands as possible."

"It's too dangerous," Jack replied feeling decidedly protective. Where this woman was concerned the gentlemanly behaviour that had been drilled into him by his uncle was suddenly to the fore.

Isabella went to the bed and ran her hand under the thin mattress, pulling out a pistol. "I can look after myself, and yes, I do know how to use it."

Jack grinned, his affection for her deepening by the minute. But it was just affection he assured himself, nothing more. "Very well, but you'll wait outside until we've dealt with Green's men, understood?"

"Aye, aye, Captain," came the pert reply. Jack grabbed her round the waist and pulled her close for a long hungry kiss, ignoring the pistol that was wedged between their bodies.

As quietly as they could, Jack and his paramour made their way down the stairs and out the back door. Not that anyone was likely to hear them over the high winds now battering the town. It was a difficult journey down the hill, and within moments both were soaked to the skin, the rain washing away the muck from Jack's face, leaving his handsome features exposed to the elements.

No one was mad enough to be outside. The gale blowing in off of the harbour battered against the buildings, debris blew along the streets, and Jack could barely hear himself think. Jack's prediction that the guards would be under cover had proved true. No one patrolled the harbour, though light filtered through chinks in closed shutters and doors.

As they reached the storage facility José loomed out of the night, his bulk dwarfing Jack's slender frame.

"Ready?" Jack mouthed.

José nodded, and Jack indicated to Isabella to wait around the end of the building where the storm's force was slightly lessened. Until they had dealt with the pirates inside, he didn't want her anywhere where harm might befall her.

Jack hammered out the secret knock, hoping he could be heard over the high winds. A few moments later a tousled head stuck itself out through the door, bleary, alcohol dimmed eyes focussing on the slight form standing too close to him. Jack's dark eyes sparkled with devilment as the business end of a pistol was pressed under the pirate's chin. Leaning close, Jack whispered, "Take a step outside, mate, I want a word."

Suddenly Green's henchman recognised his peril, his mouth opened as if to yell for help and Jack quickly reversed his weapon, bringing it down on the man's skull. As the pirate sagged, Jack pushed him backward through the doorway, following him in with José right behind him. Coming toward them was a hulking great brute of a man, the one Jack had seen earlier going out for supplies. It was obvious that he had imbibed freely of the booze he had brought in, for even with such obvious danger, the pirate could barely bring his weapon up, let alone aim in any fashion.

Jack tut-tutted, and murmured quietly, "You just can't get decent crew these days. Green must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel when he hired these two."

José pushed himself in front of Jack and sent one huge fist into the drunkard's face. The man reeled and tipped over, landing with a heavy thud on the hard floor, dust billowing up from the impact.

Jack stepped over the fallen pirate with all the fastidiousness of a cat avoiding a puddle. Piled at the end of the room was box upon box, banded and secured with leather straps and buckles that made his fingers itch to open. He made his way forward, only slightly distracted when he felt the gust of wind blow through as José opened the door to let Isabella in. In under a minute he had reached the first of the boxes, eager hands joined his as they undid the straps and flung back lids. Jack's reaction was as close to lust as a man could get for any inanimate object. Before his eyes gleamed gold coins beyond counting, though he'd certainly take time to try later. Beside him he heard the same greedy gasps that he was sure he had breathed. A grin spread across his face and he turned to reach for Isabella, wanting to celebrate their success with a kiss…for he deserved it, that was for sure.

She had moved from his side to open another chest, and beside her José was also unbuckling straps. Then Isabella turned to José and flung her arms around his neck, giving him the kiss Jack had been anticipating. Confusion made Jack slow, too damn slow to realise that Isabella had played him false. He had certainly been suspicious of José, but he had foolishly ignored the niggling doubts he had harboured about Isabella. Even as his hand moved to find the butt of his pistol Isabella had turned and raised her own, her hand steady, her aim true.

Betrayed, by God. No, by Isabella. Jack couldn't get his brain to function. All he could see at that moment was the hard look in her eyes, the clench of her jaw. Gone was the soft woman he had begun to… no, he'd not go down that road. It was too late to fight his way out, his sword hung uselessly at his side, no match for the pistol pointed at his person. Could he talk his way out of this? Jack didn't know. It seemed he didn't know a lot of things when it came to this woman.

"Love, what's this? I though we was partners, you and me… and your cousin here. No need to point that at me, plenty for all." Jack tried a step forward and watched her finger tighten on the trigger. Raising his hands he stepped back quickly. "Right, right. You take what you want, and I'll just wait here, yes?"

Isabella spoke softly, her voice competing with the howl of the storm outside, but Jack heard her well enough.

"No, Jack. You see I can't let you tell anyone about me. Green, well he knows me too well. He'll track me down, take his revenge. But this," she pointed to the spoils behind her, "This is my revenge on him, for all he did to me and mine. It's the only way to hurt him."

As Isabella had been speaking José had been moving from chest to chest, bagging gems and coins. More surely than he and Isabella could carry?

"I take it you have the mules waiting outside?" Jack asked bitterly. Not sure what was causing the pain in his chest, the fact that Isabella had proved much less than he had thought or, he wanted desperately to believe, the fact that he was losing his chance to some of the gold that glittered so enticingly just out of his reach. He should have known better than to trust anyone, let alone a woman who had fallen into his arms as easily as this one had. Not a mistake he'd make again, if he ever got the chance.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

He hadn't been prepared for the sudden report of the gun, nor the pain that seared through his shoulder as her bullet took him to the floor, nor the thud as a second bullet followed the first. He could hear his own voice screaming in agony as the conspirators dragged their haul to the open door, letting the storm into the room and leaving Jack to bleed to death behind them.

Jack stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on something, anything to bring his mind into some clarity. He knew, if wanted to live, he had to stop the bleeding. His left arm was useless, so with painful slowness he dragged his right hand up to his head and tore off the bandana, pressing it tightly against his shoulder. Gods but it hurt. He had to get out of here, had to find help or he would die, and he wasn't ready, not yet. Barbossa still lived, the Pearl still waited, oh no, Jack Sparrow wasn't going to die just yet.

Inch by inch, Jack pushed himself along the floor until he could feel the spray of rain against his face. He let himself rest, just for a moment, gathering his strength to move once again. He knew where he had to go, the only place he could find sanctuary on this cursed island. If he could get there.

"How long?" Jack's voice was a bare whisper in the darkness. He knew she was there, knew she would not have left him.

A gentle hand was laid over his own where it lay on the covers, her voice a soothing balm to his fevered mind.

"Three nights. Oh, Jack I am so glad you found me."

His fingers wrapped around hers, and he squeezed them gently. "Where else would I come, Genny?"

Jack slipped back into sleep knowing that with this woman alone he was assured a safe harbour.

Strange, Jack thought, as he banished those memories from his mind. He'd always thought that having your life pass before your eyes happened just before you died, and yet here he was dredging up things he'd much rather forget - and all while sitting in the damp hole that was The Revenge's bilge. Of course the hangman had done that job for him just a few short days ago, reciting some of the more colourful aspects of his career. He'd been rather proud of all he had achieved, Jack grinned to himself. And besides, while he was still breathing there was a chance to come out of this alive. He'd done it before and he'd do it again.

Something always turned up for Captain Jack Sparrow.

That was the penultimate chapter, folks. Are you ready for the finale?


	11. Chapter 11

**Okay folks, this is it – the final chapter!**

**XI. REVENGE**

Darkness descended upon the bilge. Jack grimaced, blinked…then squinted painfully as the hatch was opened and light poured in. A pistol appeared, followed by a head. Harry Covenant's.

"Well, Sparrow," Harry said, a self-satisfied smirk on his burned face. "I suggest you make your peace with whatever god you believe in. You'll be seeing him soon." With that, he levelled the gun at Jack's heart.

"You just going to shoot me, Harry?" Jack asked, quite calmly, given there was a gun pointed at his chest, even as his mind cast about for a way out. "What happened to hanging me from the yardarm?"

"I decided hanging's too good for you. Now haul your sorry backside out of there or I _will_ shoot you."

Once up on deck, Jack paused. The early morning light, though muted by the storm clouds overhead, still hurt. He blinked eyes too long used to the gloom of the bilge, waiting for them to adjust. His headache felt worse than ever and he winced. Jack didn't want to die with a headache. Actually, he didn't want to die at all. Not for a very, very long time…

At least the worst of the storm appeared to be over. Spatters of rain still fell and the Revenge was rolling heavily under Jack's feet, but the clouds, driven by the wind, were heading away to the east. The sun was just visible, hanging low on the horizon. It was going to be a glorious day.

Jack only hoped he would live to see it.

The Revenge had weighed anchor in a narrow cove of an island – Jack wasn't sure which one. White sand, swaying palm trees, some rocks away off to starboard – no different from the hundred or more just like it that Jack had seen during his travels.

Well, maybe there was one difference. This one might just mark his grave.

The business end of a musket was shoved into Jack's back, and he took a hasty step forward, almost tripping over one of the many barrels littering the deck. As he paused, something heavy hit him on the right knee. Hard. Jack staggered and grabbed the ship's rail, barely managing to stay on his feet. Then it, whatever _it_ was, hit him again and he did go down, clutching his knee in agony.

"Get up." Harry's voice was cold as ice.

Jack blinked up at him, realising that the man behind him – the bosun, he remembered – had just clouted him with the blunt end of a marlinespike. For a moment he fervently wished people would stop hitting him. Still, it was better than being shot – marginally.

"Get up," Harry said again.

With an effort, Jack climbed back to his feet, using the barrel to lever himself up, and tested his knee. It still bent in the right direction, so the bosun probably hadn't done any lasting damage – which was good since he preferred his limbs intact – he was funny that way. The pirate shoved Jack in the back and he limped onward, coming to a halt at last near the mainmast.

"Now what, Harry?" he asked, turning to face the captain of the Revenge.

Harry smiled. It was a cold smile and it sent an icy shiver down Jack's back. "Tie 'is hands."

A pirate stepped forward with a length of rope. Jack shot a quick, covert glance at Bridges, standing nearby. 'If you're going to do anything to help,' he thought, 'now's the opportune time.'

Bridges did not move. With a sigh, Jack held his hands out before him, wincing as the rope bit into his skin. His options were diminishing fast.

Once Jack was bound, some of the tension seemed to go out of Harry Covenant. He stepped forward, shoved his pistol into the front of his belt, and put his arm – the one that worked - around Jack's shoulders. "So, Jack, me lad. It's been quite a while. Do ye know how long I've been searching for you?"

"Five years?" Jack hazarded.

"Aye. Five years. Never believed ye was dead, ye see. It was… When was it Hardy?"

"A year later." The First Mate answered, his voice flat as if he had heard this all too often. He probably had.

"A year later," Harry mused. "A whole year. Why, even I'd begun to wonder if maybe I was wrong, if maybe you really had died _when I blew your filthy ship out of the water and spat on its wreckage!_"

His voice raised on the last, until he was shouting, spittle flying from his lips.

Then his anger vanished as quickly as it had come, and he patted Jack absently on the shoulder. Jack held himself very still, trying not to breathe. Harry continued, his words smooth and calm now, wearing a smile that did not reach his single good eye. "A year later. Aye, that's when I heard the tale of a certain Captain Sparrow, what had sacked Nassau without ever firing a single shot. Quite a feat, that. Care to tell me how you did it? Some rumours had you impersonating a priest…"

Jack answered carefully. "It's a long story, Harry."

A look of genuine disappointment crossed Covenant's face. "Ah. Pity. We don't have no time for long stories today. Nor short ones, neither." He leaned closer, until his nose was almost touching Jack's. "D'ye know what I'm going to do to you, Jack Sparrow?"

Jack shook his head slightly, staring into Harry's eye and feeling somewhat like a mouse that had just stumbled across a cobra. "Let me go?" he tried gallantly.

Harry drew back and laughed. It was a long, wild laugh that grew higher and higher until it was practically a scream. Jack's blood went cold. The man was mad. Utterly and completely raving. One ship shy of an armada.

He was in bigger trouble than he thought.

"That's what I like about you, Jack Sparrow…" Harry's laughter drifted away and the mirth faded from his expression. "No. No there's nothing I like about you." His eye narrowed. "I'm going to have my revenge on you, Jack," he whispered glacially. "Five long years I've waited, and now I'm goin' to watch you suffer."

Behind Harry, Jack could see Bridges, stepping carefully to the side, one hand going to the pistol in his belt. 'Hurry up,' Jack thought desperately, taking care not draw any attention to what the man was doing.

Harry never moved. His eye never left Jack's. A brief moment passed – and then Harry straightened, and said in the crisp tones Jack remembered from the old days, on those occasions when Harry wasn't three sheets to the wind:

"Mr Bridges!"

Bridges started, his hand jerking away from his pistol…and in one smooth movement, so fast that Jack could hardly believe a crippled man could move like that, Harry spun, pulled his gun, and fired it. The shot echoed through the Revenge…and Bridges toppled like a felled tree, an expression of astonishment on his face.

Through it all, no one moved. Even when Bridges hit the deck with a crash, nobody stirred….except the Revenge's Captain. Pausing only to toss the smoking pistol aside, he seized a handful of Jack's shirt with his right hand…and lifted. Jack's feet didn't quite leave the deck, but it was a near thing. He had forgotten just how strong Harry was. Covenant leaned forward again and said in a soft, but deadly voice:

"I'm going to put you in one of the long boats and set fire to you, you bastard. And then I'm going to watch you burn."

Okay. Time to think of a new plan. Unfortunately, Jack's mind seemed to have gone completely blank. Harry's threat… Through the years, Jack had seen some pretty nasty things, but that was… It was… Actually, there weren't any words to describe what it was.

Slowly though, his mind began to come back to life. Jack had survived a lot – the bullet from the excise men's gun that could have killed him when he was twelve; the sinking of the Mary Ellen, and the Bloody Cutlass; Barbossa's mutiny and his subsequent marooning; being adrift all that time after the Victory had gone down; the curse of the Aztec Gold, plus more captures and narrow escapes than he cared to think about – Jack Sparrow had survived them all. He would find a way out of this. He _would. _All he needed was a plan.

Right. Bridges was dead. That meant he was on his own. So… An idea flickered through Jack's mind and he stilled. It was either brilliant or suicidal. Possibly both. But it just might work. All he needed was a distraction. Just one little distraction and…

Harry, still holding Jack by the shirt, had turned and was barking out orders to haul the tarps off one of the boats…and at that moment a cannonball arced high over the Revenge then ploughed into the rough seas on the port side. Everyone froze, just for an instant, then they swung around…to see the H.M.S. Dauntless appearing like a ghost directly out of the dawn sun, swooping around the island under full sail and heading straight for the Revenge. There was a stunned silence, then a howl went up. Harry's.

"No! Not now!"

But his crew was already leaping for sails and anchor, trying desperately to get the pirate ship back under way. Jack didn't waste time wondering how or why the Dauntless had found them. He had asked for a distraction and here it was. Act now, question later. Even as Harry's fingers loosened, Jack jerked himself backwards then swung both bound fists at Harry's face. The larger man staggered under the impact, but did not go down. Jack was already moving, diving across the deck toward Bridge's fallen body. Behind him, Harry roared incoherently, like an angry bull. Hardy was shouting out orders as fast as he could and all around was bedlam as the sails began to go up. No one even noticed Jack….except for Harry. But Covenant was by now half a dozen paces behind Jack. He limped hurriedly toward Jack, his cane upraised…and Jack's hand closed around the pistol at Bridge's waist. He pulled it free with a jerk, rolled under the cane that came flashing down toward him…and came up shooting.

The barrel went up with a whoosh, the force of the explosion sending Jack and everyone else flying. Even as he rolled backward and crashed to the deck, a satisfied smile crossed Jack's face. Gunpowder. The barrel was obviously waiting to be stored safely down below. It should have been done first thing, rather than left up on the deck.

But then, Harry always was a bloody awful pirate.

Slowly, ears ringing, Jack lifted his head from where he was sprawled on his back…and saw utter chaos. The port side of the Revenge was on fire, flames licking along her deck and rail, leaping up to catch the closest sails. Most of the crew were still stunned, only now beginning to pick themselves up from the deck. As for Harry, there was no sign of him – he might have been thrown into the hold by the force of the explosion, or knocked overboard. Jack couldn't find it in him to care. Right now he just wanted to avoid both the fire _and_ capture by the Dauntless. After all, it would be more than a little ironic if Covenant's threat came true and he ended up dying in the flames.

All around him, Harry's men seemed to be coming to the same conclusion as Jack. Some rushed forward to try to put out the fire, even though Jack could see that it was futile. The flames had too good a hold. The un-watered deck was going up like a tinderbox. The rest of the crew were still trying to get the ship moving, in a vain attempt to avoid the Dauntless.

That was twice now. Twice Jack had set fire to Harry's ship. This was becoming a habit. There was still no sign of Covenant, and the Dauntless was coming on fast, steering toward them at an oblique angle to cut off any attempt at escape. The Revenge _was _moving now, albeit slowly. The crew had managed to turn her toward the open ocean and she was beginning to gain a little speed before the wind. It wouldn't be enough, though. There was no way she could avoid the Dauntless, even if she weren't on fire. Even as Jack watched, two more cannonballs drove into the Revenge's sides. 'You should save your shot, mate,' Jack thought savagely as he hauled himself to his feet. Sooner or later, this ship was going down, with the Dauntless' help…or without. Dragging his gaze away, Jack found a nearby cutlass, dropped in the confusion, sliced his bonds…and nearly took off a finger as the thought struck him:

_No way that she could avoid the Dauntless_.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the last thing he wanted to do. Jack turned and dove for the wheel, leaping a burning rope that lay on the deck. The flames were spreading fast – even as he moved, the fire leapt from the sails on the mainmast to the mizzenmast, uncomfortably close to him. Great gouts of smoke, blown by the last of the storm winds, wafted across the water, obscuring the Dauntless.

Jack shouldered the pirate at the wheel aside, who abandoned his post quite happily. Jack heard a faint splash behind him, then he was spinning the wheel and turning the Revenge…._directly toward the Dauntless' bow. _

The Revenge still answered the helm, bless her, and slowly they came about. Another waft of smoke poured forth, hiding her progress from the Dauntless, at least for the moment. Several long seconds passed while Jack held the wheel…and his breath. Behind him he could hear flames crackling and there was a crash as something fell to the deck – the mizzen top yard. All around him, there were more splashes as the pirates began to take to the water.

Jack was just beginning to wonder if he had miscalculated his course, when there came a mighty crashing sound, and a shudder ran the length of the ship, throwing Jack forward so that the wheel dug into his stomach. The smoke cleared briefly, and a wave of exultation went through Jack. His course had been true – the Revenge's bowsprit had smashed through the Dauntless' mainshrouds and brought her mainmast toppling down in a flurry of wood splinters. The Revenge's foremast too, came crashing down, and the combined impact brought the two ships closer, their remaining yards locked together. Jack had to stifle the insane desire to giggle – it was perfect. The Dauntless was in no danger of sinking, and even though some flames had already leapt from one ship to the other, the warship had enough hands to ensure the fire would not spread – well, probably - but she was essentially crippled. It would be hours, if not days, before she could extricate herself from this mess.

The smoke cleared again, just for an instant, and Jack found himself meeting the gaze of Commodore Norrington. The man's eyebrows shot up as he realised who stood at the wheel of the pirate ship. Jack swept off his hat with a flourish and waved it in a mocking salute at the Commodore. Then he turned and raced toward the nearest long boat, as fast as his injured knee could carry him.

He wasn't out of danger yet. There was still a chance the men of the Dauntless would chase after him, although they had bigger problems to deal with just now. Even if they left him and the pirate crew alone, Jack had no idea where he was. It was possible that Harry's men could steer them back to the shipping lanes in one of the boats. Otherwise, all he had done was delay the inevitable. If he could just launch the boat, with whatever men were left on the pirate sloop, he could pick up the men in the water. If they all rowed together, they just might…

A hand suddenly appeared out of the smoke, locking onto Jack's wrist. He froze, turned his head…and met the mad gaze of Harry Covenant.

There was no hint of sanity left on Harry's face, no remnant of the man he used to be. Only hatred and fury burned in his single eye. His body was mottled with smoke and soot, and blood ran down the side of his scarred face where a flying splinter must have caught him. Despite this, Harry grinned, his teeth looking surprisingly bright against his blackened face, and said softly:

"Goin' somewhere, Jack?"

Jack tried to pull away, but it was like trying to prise off a limpet. Harry's fingers clenched around him even tighter until Jack would have sworn he felt the bones of his wrist grinding together.

"Let go, Harry," Jack said, as reasonably as he could manage. "We have to abandon ship."

Harry shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I think we'll just stay here a while and burn together. 'Tis fitting, don't you think?"

No, he bloody well didn't! Jack gritted his teeth then slammed the fist of his free hand into Harry's face. He might as well have been hitting a brick wall for all the good it did. The man simply shook his head, spat out a mouthful of blood, and smiled slowly.

"It's going to take more than that, lad."

He was right. Jack _really_ didn't have the time for this. The smoke was searing his lungs, making breathing nigh impossible. The long boat he had been heading for had already gone up in flames, and there was another crash nearby as the main yard came down in a shower of sparks. The Revenge was crumbling around him. He had to get off her…now.

Jack's gaze dropped…to fall on the cutlass in Harry's belt. Harry looked downward too, then they both looked up, their gazes meeting one last time. A flicker of alarm broke through the madness in Harry's face, and he tried to lift his crippled left arm, to reach for the cutlass. It didn't move. Realisation blossomed on his face.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Jack said quietly. "I never intended any of this." Then, with one smooth motion, he drew Harry's cutlass and plunged it into Covenant's stomach. Harry's eyes widened, a look of – was that regret? – crossing his face, and then he was falling. For a moment he still managed to hold onto his foe's wrist. Jack was dragged forward, nearly falling, before he managed to tear free at last. Then, coughing and blinded, Jack turned and limped toward the starboard rail, where, for the second time in five years, he flung himself over the Revenge's side, madly clutching his hat.

Jack hit the water hard. By the time he surfaced and coughed up a lungful of smoke and seawater, the locked ships had drifted a few feet away from him. He looked up, peering through the billows of smoke and flame…and thought he saw the shape of a man, limping across the deck, his left arm dangling and useless. But then the smoke thickened again, and Jack decided he must have imagined it. Lungs burning and limbs shaking, Jack turned and began to swim away.

The waters were surprisingly full. Most of the pirate crew had made it safely over the side, and apparently one or two of the Navy men had gone over too when the ships had collided. In fact, it was getting decidedly crowded. Jack was treading water some distance away, wondering what his next move should be…when a shout went up from one of the pirates. Jack turned…

…and smiled.

It was the Black Pearl, bearing down on them from the east, her sails backlit by the rising sun. A lovelier sight he had never seen. Even as he watched, he could see his crew beginning to strike her sails, obviously not wanting to get too close. Not that the Dauntless could harm his darling, he noted with satisfaction. The warship's guns were facing the wrong direction. The best the Navy might manage now was a few shots from her sternchasers. Still, best not to give them a chance. Wincing at the pain the movement caused him, Jack struck out toward the waiting Pearl, as did most of the survivors from the Revenge.

"Scurvy looking bunch," Gibbs said some time later as they stood on the deck of the Pearl, while Jack tried to wring the water out of his hair. Jack looked up and followed Gibbs' gaze. Yes, the former crew of the Revenge definitely looked rather the worse for wear. There was no question of inviting them to join Jack's crew. Most of them had been on board either the Fearless or the Victory, that day five years ago. 'Betray me once,' Jack thought grimly, 'shame on you…' No, he would dump the lot of them at very the first port they came to. Speaking of…

"How'd you catch up so fast?" he asked, looking over Gibb's shoulder where the stranded Dauntless was growing ever smaller in the distance.

Gibbs rubbed his ear. "We put into Shandling Bay. Did some quick repairs, got the old girl going again."

"Aye," AnaMaria added from her position at the wheel, "and then the storm blew us straight here. 'Twas naught but an accident we happened by when we did."

Jack suppressed a grin. "Course it was. Lucky for me though, wasn't it?"

AnaMaria snorted. "Lucky? Hmmph. You won't think it lucky when we tell you what this _rescue_ is going to cost you – Captain." There was a faint hint of a smile on her lips though, belying the sting of her words. She stepped back from the wheel as Jack limped over to it, taking his rightful place once more. A feeling of contentment washed over him. It felt like coming home. He was back where he belonged. Again.

"So," he said distantly, most of his attention on his ship, not the conversation. "What's it going to cost me?"

"I'm thinking eighty percent of your share from the next prize we take," she replied.

"Twenty."

AnaMaria chuckled darkly. "We'll talk." Then she left the quarterdeck and headed toward the bow, glaring at the Revenge's pirates as she passed them. Gibbs moved to follow her, then hesitated and glanced back at Jack.

"So, Jack – be there any more surprises in your past that'll come back and bite us on the arse?"

Jack stilled, the memories he had relived through the long night in the darkened bilge flickering through his mind again…then he looked over at Gibbs and grinned. "I wouldn't be surprised, mate."

Gibbs sighed, shook his head, and walked away, leaving Jack at the wheel.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," Jack said again quietly.

Then he cocked his lucky hat at a jaunty angle, and fixed his eyes on the beckoning horizon. There were ships out there, and prizes ripe for the taking. He gave the wheel a spin, turning the Pearl toward the northeast and the Spanish shipping lanes.

After all, it wouldn't do to keep them waiting.

THE END

To everyone who read and reviewed - thank you so much for the support. It means a lot to get feed back. g 


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